CIBRARY 

ONIVEBSITY  OF  CALIFORNM 
DAVIS 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

ALFRED  KREYMBORG 


BOOKS  BY  ALFRED  KREYMBORQ 

MOODS  AND  STUDIES  (Out  of  print) 

APOSTROPHES  (Out  of  print) 

ERNA  VITEK,  A  Novel 

MUSHROOMS 

PLAYS  FOR  POEM-MIMES 

BLOOD  OF  THIXGS 

PLAYS  FOR  MERRY  ANDREWS   (In  preparation) 

Editor  of  the  New  Verse  Anthologies, 

OTHERS,  FOR  1916 

OTHERS,  FOR  1917 

OTHERS,  FOR  1919 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

A  Second  Book  of  Free  Farms 


BY 

ALFRED  KREYMBORG 

Author  of  "Mushrooms,"  "Plays  for 
Poem-Mimes/*  etc. 


NICHOLAS  L.  BROWN 
NEW  YORK  MCMXX 


CIKRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFQEUH 

PAVIS 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
NICHOLAS  L.  BROWN 


Poems  in  this  volume  have  ap- 
peared in  the  following  periodi- 
cals, to  which  the  author  makes 
his  acknowledgment: 

THE  BOOKMAN 

BRUNO  CHAP  BOOKS 

CARTOONS 

THE  CATHOLIC  ANTHOLOGY 

THE  CRISIS 

THE  DIAL 

THE  FREE  SPIRIT 

THE  LITTLE  REVIEW 

THE  MODERN  SCHOOL 

THE  NEW  REPUBLIC 

THE  NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE 

OTHERS 

PLAYBOY 

POETRY,  A  MAGAZINE  OP  VERSE 

THE  POETRY  JOURNAL 

THE  POETRY  REVIEW  OF  AMERICA 

THE  SEVEN  ARTS 


To 
DOROTHY  KREYMBORG 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TETE-A-TETE        13 

CLAVICHORD        14 

MIDNIGHT  CAPRICE 16 

PEBBLE,  SONG  AND  WATER-FALL 19 

NUN  SNOW:    A  PANTOMIME  OF  BEADS       ...  22 

ZOOLOGY 26 

SYLLOGISM 26 

PARRAKEETS 26 

OWLS 26 

CAMELS 27 

WORMS 28 

ROBINS 28 

DUCKLINGS 29 

ROACHES         29 

PRIMER 30 

HEN-BEING 30 

GEOMETRY 33 

RHYMES 34 

ARIAS  AND  ARIETTES 35 

SERENATA 35 

VALSE         36 

GRASSES 36 

TIGER-LILY 37 

HARVEST  DIRGE 39 

ROUNDELAY 39 

INDIAN  SKY 40 

INDIAN    SUMMER 41 

ARABS 42 

MIRAGE 43 

PATCH 43 

THRENODY 44 

SUN- WATER 45 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

KEG 46 

THE  HUDSON 4-6 

GOLDPIECES  AND  HEMSTITCHES 48 

BELL 48 

GOLDPIECES 48 

CRADLE 49 

CHINAMAN 49 

CRIES 50 

MOLLUSC 50 

BoY-LlGHTNING 50 

HEMSTITCHES 51 

POLYSYLLABLE 52 

CLOVER 53 

ROUGE 54 

KATYDIDS        58 

OLD  PEOPLE 60 

ENDINGS 60 

PHALLIC 61 

A  WHILE 62 

MIDDLE-AGE         63 

OLD   MARRIAGE 63 

OLD  BEGGAR  HEELS 64 

TRIANGLES 64 

PROSE  RHYTHMS,  1906 66 

A  LOVER  TELLS 66 

A  POOR  MAN  TELLS 66 

A  MADMAN  TELLS 67 

A  DEAD  MAN  TELLS 68 

DOROTHY 70 

HER  EYES 70 

HER  HAIR 71 

HER  HANDS 71 

HER  BODY 72 

CLAY 73 

OVALS         73 

ALCHEMY 73 

OTHERS 73 

THREE 74 

WESTMINSTER 75 

AGATE 75 

ILLUSIONS 75 

JADE 75 

IMAGE        76 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BLOOD  OF  THINGS 78 

SCRAP        78 

PUMP         78 

PUDDLE 78 

SHOW-CASE 79 

CIGAR-INDIAN 79 

CIGAB.-BUTT 80 

LETTER-BOX 80 

DUST 81 

PARK-BENCH 81 

WEIGHING-MACHINE 82 

DUNG         82 

ELECTRIC  SIGN 83 

BITS .      .  84 

COINS 85 

COPPER 85 

SILVER 85 

GOLD 86 

THE  ROUND  OF  A  FIVE  AND  TEN  CENT  STORE  .  87 

THINGS 87 

RING 87 

HATCHET  VERSUS  HAMMER 88 

PAPER  ROSES 88 

THIMBLE 89 

CoFFEE-MlLL 89 

DISHES 89 

MOUSE-TRAP         90 

AISLES 90 

NICKELS  AND  DIMES 91 

ROUND 91 

PHYSIOLOGY 92 

LEAVES 92 

EYES 93 

STOMACH         94 

HEART 95 

BRAINS 96 

CITY  DANDELIONS 97 

JASMINE  WAY 97 

LANES 97 

CITY  DANDELIONS 98 

TESTAMENTS         99 

MANUFACTURE 99 

LANDOWNER 100 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ROMAN  HUNGER 101 

HEREDITY 102 

THAT  Is 104 

DEREGLE         105 

32°  FAHRENHEIT 107 

ON  DIT 108 

HELIOTROPE 109 

WEDLOCK        109 

ROOMS 110 

CARBON-DIOXIDE Ill 

17  +  4x3  —  0 112 

SUCH  AND  SUCH 114 

FIFTH  AVENUE 115 

PROPAGANDA         117 

CHESS  PLAYERS 120 

Miss  SAL'S  MONOLOGUE 125 

CROWNS  AND  CRONIES 130 

VISION 130 

CRONIES 131 

INDOORS 131 

To  THE  OTHERS «     .  132 

To  W.  C.  W.  M.  D 133 

To  A  SMALL  SCULPTOR 134 

GREEK  OR  PERHAPS  ROMAN  EPIGRAM 135 

SCREEN  DANCE 136 

To  WHITMAN 137 

RED  CHANT 137 

THE    NOBILITY *     ...  139 

SELF-ESTEEM 139 

POETRY 140 

PATRIOT 141 

1914 

PASTS <,     .  142 

CHRISTIANITY 142 

You  THERE 143 

THE  NEXT  DRINK 144 

CONJUGATION 145 

Rococo   KINSMEN 147 

ARROWS 148 

NEED  I  SAY,  WHERE? 149 

INITIALS 150 

WORD  .  151 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

ALFRED  KREYMBORG 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

A  SECOND  BOOK  OF  FREE  FORMS 

TETE-A-TETE 

In  the  whither  of  you, 

there  are  deathless  things, 

some  foolish, 

some  fine, 

I  might  beckon  you  to  ?  — 

I'm  bone  and  flesh, 

blood  and  brain 

of  a  sort  for  a  start?  — 

with  an  instrument, 

you  can  see  and  hear, 

I  stroke 

to  a  sort  of  a  start?  — 

I'm  groping  my  way  ?  — 
seeking  my  self?  — 
yes !  —  but  — 
I  might  prove  the 
way  to  finding  you  ?  — 
13 


U  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

accidentally  touch 

some  phrase  in  my  riddle, 

solving  you 

though  it  doesn't  solve  me  ? 

No?  — but  — 
listen  to  me  — 
going  to  you ! 


CLAVICHORD 

If  you  stand  where  I  stand  — 

in  my  boudoir  — 

(don't  mind  my  shaving  — 

I  can't  afford  a  barber)  — 

you  can  see  into  her  boudoir  — 

you  can  see  milady  — 

her  back,  her  green  smock,  the  bench  she  loves 

her  hair  always  down  in  the  morning  — 

black,  and  nearly  as  long  as  the  curtains  — 

with  ringlets  at  the  tips  — 

the  hairdresser  called  this  A.  M. — 

him  I  have  to,  I  want  to  afford. 

Unhappily,  you  can't  see  her  face  — 

only  the  back  of  her  small  round  head  — 

and  a  glint  of  her  ears,  two  glints  — 

but  her  hands,  alas,  not  her  hands,  though 

happily,  you  can  hear  them. 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  15 

It  isn't  a  clavichord  — 

only  a  satinwood  square  — 

bought  cheap  at  an  auction  — 

but  it  might  be,  you'd  think  it, 

a  clavichord,  bequeathed  by  the  past  — 

it  sounds  quite  like  feathers. 

Bach?     Yes,  who  else  could  that  be  — 

whom  else  would  you  have  in  the  morning  — 

with  the  sun  and  milady  ? 

Grave?     Yes,  but  so  is  the  sun  — 

not  always  ?     No,  but  please  don't  ponder  — 

listen,  hear  the  theme  — 

hear  it  dig  into  the  earth  of  harmonies. 

A  dissonance?     No,  it's  only  a  stone  — 

which  powders  into  particles  with  the  rest. 

Now  follow  the  theme  — 

down,  down,  into  the  soil  — 

calling,  evoking  the  spirit  of  birth  — 

you  hear  those  new  tones  — 

that  sprinkle,  that  burst  — 

roulade  and  arpeggio? 

Gently  now,  firmly  — 

with  solemn  persuasion  — 

hiding  a  whimsic  raillery  — 

(does  a  dead  king  raise  his  forefinger?)  — 

though  they  would,  though  they  might  — 

no  phrase  can  escape  — 

the  theme  rules. 

Unhappy  ?     No, 


16  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

they  ought  to  be  happy  — 

each  is  because  of,  in  spite  of,  the  other  — 

that  is  democracy  — 

he  can't  spare  a  particle  — 

that  priest  of  the  morning  sun. 

A  mistake  ?     Yes  indeed,  but  — 

all  the  more  human  — 

would  you  have  her  drum  like  a  schoolmaster 

abominable  right  note  at  the  right  time  — 

in  the  morning,  so  early  — 

or  ever  at  all  ?  — 

she'll  play  it  again  — - 

oh  don't,  please  don't  clap  — 

you'll  disturb  them ! 

Here,  try  my  tobacco  — 

good,  a  deep  pipeful,  eh?  — 

an  aromatic  blend  — 

my  other  extravagance  — 

yes,  I'll  join  you,  but  wait  — 

I  must  first  dry  my  face ! 


MIDNIGHT  CAPRICE 

Prisoner  there, 

I  would  bring  you  — 

what  is  it?  — 

what  shall  I  call  it?  — 

no,  midnight  between  us, 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  17 

scarce  any  feeling  can  find  you. 

Ah,  I  have  a  light  in  me  — 

where  is  the  light  in  me?  — 

and  you  have  a  light  in  you  — 

haven't  you  a  light  in  you  ?  — 

but  the  corridor  — 

where  is  the  corridor?  — 

however  I  call  or  you  yearn, 

is  there  a  corridor? 

I  could  sneak  you  a  thought  — 

would  the  gaoler  see  a  thought?  — 

which  might  reach  —  what  is  it?  — 

the  chink  in  you? 

Even  so  — 

what  thought  has  a  body, 

knees,  arms,  hands,  a  mouth?  — 

has  thought  a  body,  can  thought  touch 

thought  ?  — 

nor  can  I  find  the  chink  in  me  — 
have  I  a  chink  in  me  ? 
Prisoner  there, 
sing  you  to  yourself, 
sing  I  to  myself  — 
this  be  our  courtship! 
Nay,  I  came  from  the  cell 
of  a  woman  once  — 
she  had  a  light  in  her  — 
she  had  a  corridor  — 
she  sneaked  me  out  to  me  — 


18  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

was  the  gaoler  away  ? 

Even  so — 

what  body  has  a  thought 

to  remember  that  ?  — 

or  how  it  was  done  ?  — 

and  how  to  do  it  again?  — 

were  I  mother  to  myself, 

could  I  do  it?  — 

ah !  were  I  mother  to  myself, 

and  you  father  to  yourself  — 

is  that  our  corridor? 

Prisoner  there  —  look  — 

can  you  see  from  where  you  are  ?  — 

have  you  a  sorrow  ?  — 

is  that  your  sorrow, 

silver  hood  and  silver  cloak, 

dainty  hands  and  dainty  feet, 

dancing  a  slow  step  with  mine?  — 

what  a  happy  movement  now !  — 

one  can  fairly  hear  a  gigue ! 

Or  has  that  fop  of  a  moon  — 

come  through  a  flimsy  cloud  — 

like  a  rider  through  a  hoop  — 

for  another  caprice  with  the  stars? 

foppery  courts  frippery? 

Even  so, 

cannot  ever  sorrows  meet? 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  19 


PEBBLE,  SONG  AND  WATER  FALL 

Have  you  a  religion, 

a  philosophy, 

a  theory  or  two  or  three?  — 

bring  them  out  here  — 

a  bath  in  this  air  won't  hurt  them  — 

or  you  can  keep  them  in  your  pockets  — 

nobody  here  for  you  to  show  them  to, 

for  you  and  your  thought  to  be  doubted  by  — 

and  scatter  them  at  the  last 

(you  may  find  them  useless?) 

down  the  mountain  slope  — 

poke  them  with  a  stick 

and  watch  them  slide 

over  strange  soil  and  past  stranger  surroundings, 

only  to  bounce  and  skip  and  twirl  and  fly  — 

(fancy  the  joy  they'd  have, 

pent  up  as  they  were  back  East !) 

then  to  nestle  out  of  sight, 

beyond  all  argumentation  \ 

Have  you  no  religion, 

no  philosophy, 

no  theory  or  two  or  three?  — 

you  can  pick  them  up, 

have  them  for  the  mere  stooping, 

or  break  them,  pluck  them  pleasantly  — 

Indian  paint-brush, 


20  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

baby-blue-eyes, 

forget-me-not, 

the  yellow  monkey-weed  — 

dizzier  climbing 

(like  a  bug  up  the  side  of  a  wall!) 

will  give  you  clouds  of  wild  lilac, 

or  wild  clematis, 

or  a  spray  of  the  maneanita, 

so  named  by  the  race  of  Fray  Junipero ! 

Or  come  and  steal  a  bird  song  — 

(the  mocking  bird  will  teach  you  how!) 

or  don't  steal  it  — 

let  them  play  on  you, 

(so  many  snatches  the  birds  have  here!) 

let  them  start  innocent  counterpoint 

with  the  aid  of  the  wood-choir  falls, 

these  water  falls 

the  high  snow  and  higher  sun 

contrive  with  the  aid  of  the  chance  of  the  day ! 

Pebble,  song,  or  water  fall, 

pebble,  song,  or  water  fall  — 

which  one  will  you  choose  ?  — 

(why  not  have  them  all?) 

there's  only  the  sky  — 

and  this  is  a  sky,  Brother, 

this  great  Sierra  sky, 

big  and  round  and  blue, 

meeting  the  horizon  wherever  you  stare  — 

there's  only  this  sky 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  21 

to  see  what  you  do  or  don't  do  — 

(it  doesn't  spy!) 

and  these  trees !     These  trees  ?  — 

out  here  they're  so  still  and  so  silent, 

you'd  fancy  them  dead  — 

they  don't  even  whisper  a  ghostly  phrase  •— 

and  if  they  have  thoughts, 

(like  the  folk  back  East!) 

they  have  a  way  of  sharing  them 

without  polluting  the  air  with  conjecture  — 

and  there's  no  wind  to  carry  their  gossip, 

if  of  a  sudden  they  gossiped  a  trifle ! 

Let  us  go  — 

you  and  I  — 

with  creeds  — 

without  creeds  — 

or  with  and  without  — 

the  mountains  out  here  — 

these  gray  Sierra  elephants  — 

you  can  crawl  up  their  sides  — 

and    from    high    broad    shoulder    to    higher    and 

highest  — 

(if  there  is  a  highest?) 
they  won't  shrug  you  off  — 
not  that  they're  docile  — 
they  simply  don't  care ! 
Nevertheless  and  notwithstanding, 
for  the  sake  of  imbroglio  — 
suppose  we  gave  them  a  tickle  or  two 


22  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

right  through  their  hides  to  a  rib  or  two  ?  — 

(elephants  must  have  a  rib  somewhere?) 

and  suppose  they  did  mind  and  did  shrug  us  off? 

Pebble,  song,  or  water  fall  — 

which  one  would  you  choose 

for  toppling  and  sliding  and  bouncing 

and  skipping  and  twirling  and  flying?  — 

(fancy  the  joy  we'd  have, 

pent  up  as  we  were  back  East!) 

but  why  not  have  all  three  ?  — 

pebble,  song,  and  water  fall, 

pebble,  song,  cmd  water  fall  — 

then  to  nestle  out  of  sight, 

beyond  all  argumentation ! 

Come  on,  Brother ! 

But  wait ! 

One  moment ! 

Don't  forget  to  bring  your  humility ! 


NUN  SNOW: 

A  PANTOMIME  OF  BEADS 

Earth  Voice 

Is  she 

thoughtless  of  life, 

a  lover  of  imminent  death, 

Nun  Snow 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  23 

touching  her  strings  of  white  beads  ? 

Is  it  her  unseen  hands 

which  urge  the  beads  to  tremble  ? 

Does  Nun  Snow, 

aware  of  the  death  she  must  die  alone, 

away  from  the  nuns 

of  the  green  beads, 

of  the  ochre  and  brown, 

of  the  purple  and  black  — 

does  she  improvise 

along  those  soundless  strings 

in  the  worldly  hope 

that  the  answering,  friendly  tune, 

the  faithful,  folk-like  miracle, 

will  shine  in  a  moment  or  two? 

Moon  Voice 

Or  peradventure, 

are  the  beads  merely  wayward, 

on  an  evening  so  soft, 

and  One  Wind 

is  so  gentle  a  mesmerist 

as  he  draws  them  and  her  with  his  hand? 

Earth  Voice 

Was  it  Full  Moon, 

who  contrives  tales  of  this  order, 

and  himself  loves  the  heroine, 

Nun  Snow  — 


24  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

Wind  Voice 

Do  you  see  his  beads  courting  hers  ?  — 

lascivious  monk*  — 

Earth  Voice 

Was  it  Full  Moon, 

slyly  innocent  of  guile, 

propounder  of  sorrowless  whimseys, 

who  breathed  that  suspicion? 

Is  it  One  Wind, 

the  wily,  scholarly  pedant  — 

is  it  he  who  retorts  — 

Wind  Voice 

Like  olden  allegros 

in  olden  sonatas, 

all  tales  have  two  themes, 

she  is  beautiful, 

he  is  beautiful, 

with  the  traditional  movement, 

their  beads  court  each  other, 

revealing  a  cadence  as  fatally  true 

as  the  sum  which  follows  a  one-plus-one  — 

so,  why  inquire  further? 

Nay,  inquire  further, 

deduce  it  your  fashion ! 

Nun  Snow, 

as  you  say, 

touches  her  strings  of  white  beads, 

Full  Moon, 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  25 

let  you  add, 

his  lute  of  yellow  strings ; 

and,  Our  Night 

is  square,  nay, 

Our  Night 

is  round,  nay, 

Our  Night 

is  a  blue  balcony  — 

and  therewith  close  your  inquisition ! 

Earth  Voice 

Who  urged  the  beads  to  tremble  ? 

They're  still  now ! 

Fallen,  or  cast  over  me  1 

Nun,  Moon  and  Wind  are  gone ! 

Are  they  betraying  her?  — 

Moon  Voice 
Ask  our  Night  — 

Earth  Voice 

Did  the  miracle  appear?  — 

Moon  Voice 

Ask  Our  Night, 

merely  a  child  on  a  balcony, 

letting  down  her  hair  and 

black  beads,  a  glissando  — 

ask  her  what  she  means, 

dropping  the  curtain  so  soon ! 


ZOOLOGY 

SYLLOGISM 

Love  is  an  old  dog 

who  is  faithful 

to  his  master  heritage. 

Even  when  Life, 

that  old  house  cat, 

scratches  him, 

he  returns  to  the  hearth  — 

his  tail  down, 

but  his  tail  wagging. 

On  rare  occasion, 

she  lets  him  sleep  near  her  — 

in  the  coal  bin. 

PAEEAKEETS 

If  you  don't  put  two  in  a  cage, 
parrakeets  die. 
Please  put  two  in  a  cage, 
whoever  you  are? 

OWLS 

Blue  Sky 

opens  one  eye  at  a  time ; 

but  it  sees  in  a  wink 

26         i 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  27 

more  than  your  two  in  their  eternity. 

Is  his  other  eye  closed  ?  — 

yes,  but  it  sees 

what  even  the  owls  cannot  see : 

Chinese  parasols 

spread  out  ere  mid-day ! 

If  you  had  an  open  eye 

and  a  closed  eye, 

an  open  which  closes, 

a  closed  which  opens, 

you  would  see 

all  your  twin  eyes  are  blind  to : 

born  one  after  the  other, 

they  might  see 

day  and  night, 

now  and  then, 

love  and  love, 

meet  at  last  ? 

CAMELS 

I  have  water  of  my  own 
to  take  me  towards  the  horizon ! 
But  there  are  oases  wide  away, 
and  a  beckoning  image  of  camels ! 

I  love  myself, 
but  I  love  them  more  — 
though  they  change  to  trees, 
though  they  change  to  trees! 


28  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

Let  the  sand  of  Sahara  spread  my  shroud, 
and  the  wisdom  of  Arabs  sneer  epitaph  — 
"  Camel  love  never  agrees, 
camel  love  changes  to  trees !  "  — 
I'll  follow  even  the  last  mirage ! 

WORMS 

I  was  once  as  free  as  you, 
I  was  once  as  young  as  you; 
sand  to  me,  a  sweet  pure  food, 
life  to  me,  one  oozy  slime ; 
for  I  was  once  as  long  as  you, 
longer  far  than  most  of  you : 
now  I'm  only  two  short  worms  — 
worms  you  couldn't  call  me. 

Living  two  lives,  never  one, 

two  small  lives,  each  more  than  one, 

we  so  twain,  a  twain  remain, 

twain  of  one  and  one  of  twain. 

Treacherous  day,  a  sunny  day, 

sunniest  day  that  ever  I  knew, 

a  thing  crawled  near,  cut  me  in  two, 

I  that  once  was  long  like  you. 

ROBINS 

He  did  the  best  he  could. 
With  what  he  was. 
Towards  love  that  came. 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  29 


Now, 

this  not-yet-old  young  man 

pecks  at  love, 

eyeing  it, 

touching  it, 

dropping  it, 

eyeing  it, 

like  a  wary  robin 

with  a  wriggling  worm. 

DUCKLINGS 

Oh  wise-eyed  duck, 

waddling  like  an  empress, 

tell  me: 

Would  you  be  more  happy 

or  less  happy 

or  not  at  all  happy 

if  you  had 

twelve  ducklings, 

or  ten  ducklings, 

instead  of  eleven  ducklings, 

quacking  you  dumb? 

ROACHES 

You,  sir, 

you  they  call  a  man : 

you  blow  smut  against  her? 

Ordinarily, 

I'm  such  a  shameless  softie, 


30  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

my  shoe-leather  squirms  squashing  a  roach ; 

but  I'd  enjoy, 

though  it  choke  me  with  creeps 

and  stain  me  with  blood 

(if  such  have  blood  to  bleed)  : 

you,  sir, 

I'd  enjoy  castrating. 

PRIMES 

Why  does  the  man  flay  the  horse  ? 

If  he  is  late  again, 

the  boss  will  discharge  him. 

Why  does  the  boss  flay  the  man  ? 
If  trade  won't  improve, 
his  wife  will  be  grumpy. 

Why  does  the  wife  flay  the  boss? 
If  she  wears  that  hat  much  longer, 
the  neighbors  will  sneer. 

See  the  man  flay  the  horse ! 

HEN-BEING 

Being  cooped  in  a  crate, 

cooped  in  a  crate, 

as  one  is  cooped  in  crates 

on  West  South  Water  Street 

of  the  filthy,  stinking  Chicago  River  — 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  31 

being  cooped  in  a  crate 

with  more  hens  than  a  crate  can  hold, 

is  not  an  existence, 

even  for  hens, 

but  it  gives  one  a  sense  of  safety, 

monotony,  warmth  and  interest 

I  don't  deplore. 

What  I  deplore 

is  this  being  yanked  by  the  neck, 

yanked  by  the  neck, 

yanked  by  the  neck, 

and  being  flung, 

crammed  and  damned 

by  a  common,  filthy,  stinking 

West  South  Water  Street  poultryman 

of  the  filthy,  stinking  Chicago  River, 

from  one  crate  to  another, 

one  crate  to  another, 

one  crate  to  another. 

It's  enough  to  make 

an  old  hen  squawk, 

and  I'm  an  old  hen,  if  you  please, 

a  roosterless,  eggless,  chickenless  hen! 

There's  ever  the  hope  in  a  hen  like  me 

that  the  next  crate 

will  be  one's  last, 

so  that  this  being  slammed 

from  one  crate  to  another, 

one  crate  to  another, 


S2  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

one  crate  to  another, 

will  reach  a  cadence. 

I'm  an  old  hen,  if  you  please, 

a  roosterless,  eggless,  chickenless, 

and  I  can  endure 

filthy,  stinking  West  South  Water  Street 

of  the  filthy,  stinking  Chicago  River 

of  the  filthy,  stinking  Loop  of  Chicago,  Illinois, 

but  wring  my  neck  ere  my  time 

if  I  don't  squawk  truth  for  all  hens 

when  I  affirm  that  this 

one  crate  to  another, 

one  crate  to  another, 

one  crate  to  another, 

is  no  hop  forward 

but  a  hop  backward  from 

being  cooped  in  a  crate, 

cooped  in  a  crate. 

Being  cooped  in  a  crate, 

a  hen  might  find  something  to  scratch, 

though  it's  only  one's  neighbor, 

and  one  is  sans  claws, 

sans  even  a  feather, 

to  scratch  her  with ! 

Oh,  Poultry  Man, 

you  are  truly 

the  God  of  hens ! 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  S3 


GEOMETRY 

Never  a  mouse 

chases  ever  a  tail, 

never  a  mouse  ever  sees 

that  always  a  cat 

catches  always  a  mouse, 

cats  being  kittens 

who  once  chased  their  tails  : 

Toss  a  pebble 

into  a  stream, 

never  a  circle 

catches  a  circle ; 

shoot  a  dawn-ball 

into  the  sky, 

never  a  moonbeam 

catches  a  sun; 

drop  the  same  thought 

on  the  floor, 

only  a  kitten 

catches  a  tail, 

the  tail  being  straight, 

the  kitten  a  circle : 

Yet  never  a  mouse 

chases  ever  a  tail, 

never  a  mouse  ever  sees 

that  always  some  death 

catches  always  his  mouse, 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

deaths  being  kittens 

who  once  chased  their  tails. 

EHYMES 

We  birds  — 

we  hop  — 

and  then  peck  and  coo  — 
humans  keep  their  feet  on  the  ground ! 

We  bulls  and  cows  — 

we  lick  — 

and  then  lap  and  moo  — 
humans  keep  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks ! 

Pooh  — 

but  they 

have  still  much  to  learn 

about  loosening ! 


ARIAS  AND  ARIETTES 

SEEENATA 

Your  brain  is  a  garret 
scurrying  with  gray  mice 

(mice  that  were  white  ere  dust  touched  them  gray) 
seeking  the  cheese 
you  removed  from  your  cupboard. 
(I  am  wrong,  as  usual.) 
Your  brain  is  a  tower 
clamoring  with  birds 

(such  a  whirring  of  wings,  the  color  is  blurred) 
mocking  the  discordant  choral 
you  used  to  try  on  your  clavier. 
(I  am  wrong,  as  usual.) 
Your  brain  is  a  wintry  wood  on  a  hill 
looking  afar  in  the  solitude 
and  hearkening  the  song 
(is  it  snow  or  a  breeze?) 
the  vast  silence 

essays  with  numbed  breathing. 
(I  am  wrong,  as  usual.) 
Your  brain  is  a  balcony  — 
isn't  it  a  balcony 
waiting  for  hands  below 
to  bring  their  crooked  veins  into  tune  ? 

35 


36  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

And  I  the  troubadour 

who  can  twang  you  back  to  the  garden? 

(Or  am  I  wrong,  as  usual?) 

VALSE 

Softly  — 

yes,  that  is  her  patter  in  the  hall ; 

she  has  returned. 

Eagerly  — 

yes,  that  is  her  form  in  the  door ; 

she  is  here. 

Madly  — 

yes,  these  are  her  arms ; 

this  mouth  is  hers. 

Tenderly  — 

yes,  these  are  her  eyes ; 

her  eyes  are  these. 

She  loves  me ;  she  loves  me  still  — 
and  a  little  more ! 


GRASSES 


Who 

would  decry 
instruments  — 
when  grasses, 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  37 


ever  so  fragile, 

provide  strings 

stout  enough  for 

insect  moods 

to  glide  up  and  down 

in  glissandos 

of  toes  along  wires 

or  finger-tips  on  zithers  — 

though 

the  mere  sounds 

be  theirs,  not  ours  — 

theirs,  not  ours, 

the  first  inspiration  — 

discord 

without  resolution  — 
who 

would  decry 
being  loved, 

when  even  such  tinkling 
comes  of  the  loving? 

TIGEB-UL-Y 

To  have  reached 
the  ultimate  top 
of  the  stalk, 
single,  tall,  fragile ; 
to  hang  like  a  bell, 
through  sheer  weight 
of  oneself, 


38  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

rather  than  pride  of 

it  being  the  top, 

no  higher  to  go, 

rather  than  modesty 

of  it  being 

only  a  stalk, 

one  among  myriads ; 

to  have  one's  six  petals, 

refusing  the  straight 

for  the  curve, 

dipping  mere  pin-pricks 

around  the  horizon ; 

to  have  six  tongues, 

which,  however  the  mood 

of  the  wind  may  blow, 

refuse  to  clap  into  sound ; 

and  to  keep,  withal, 

one's  finest  marvel, 

one's  passionate  specks, 

invisible : 

tiger-lily, 

if  I  bow, 

it  is  not 

in  imitation ; 

it  is 

in  recognition 

of  true  being. 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  39 

HAEVEST    DIBGE 

Why  do  you  hearken  so,  ears  of  corn? 
Wheat,  you  beckon  your  yellow  to  me? 

Come,  sir,  she's  commg,  sir. 
Come,  sir,  she's  come. 

Why  do  you  go  away,  cloud,  like  a  hearse? 
Remove  your  gold  spectacles,  stream,  and  weep? 

Come,  sir,  she's  going,  sir. 
Come,  sir,  she's  gone. 


ROUNDELAY 


The  rain  comes, 

the  worm  comes, 

the  foot  comes  — 
and  thus  it  goes, 
and  thus  it  goes  — 

The  sun  comes, 

the  rose  comes, 

the  hand  comes  — 
and  thus  it  goes, 
and  thus  it  goes  — 

Rose  to  worm, 

hand  to  foot, 

five  feet  apart  — 
and  thus  it  goes, 
and  thus  it  goes  — 


40  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

The  wind  breathes, 
the  two  return, 
dust,  to  the  sky  — 

and  thus  it  goes, 

and  thus  it  goes  — 

INDIAN    SKY 

The  old  squaw 

is  one 

with  the  old  stone  behind  her. 

Both  have  squatted  there  — 

ask  mesa, 

or  mountain,  how  long? 

The  bowl  she  holds  — 

clay  shawl  of  her  art, 

clay  ritual  of  her  faith  — 

is  one 

with  the  thought  of  the  past, 

and  one  with  the  now, 

though  dim,  a  little  old,  strange. 

The  earth  holds  her 

as  she  holds  the  bowl  — 

ask  kiva, 

or  shrine,  how  much  longer? 

No  titan, 

no  destroyer, 

no  future  thought, 

can  part 

earth  and  this  woman, 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  41 

woman  and  bowl : 
the  same  shawl 
wraps  them  around. 

INDIAN    SUMMER 

What  was  the  tune  you  heard  on  the  way 

that  you  must  dawdle  here, 

cut  a  reed  like  any  truant, 

cut  crooked  holes  in  the  reed, 

and  dabble  with  burbling  phrases 

which  can  only  tremble  and  halt 

no  matter  how  fearfully  carefully  you  blow? 

The  tune  you  heard  didn't  limp  ? 

Time,  you're  a  dunce. 

My  word  on  it  — 

you  could  have 

breathed  echo  when  the  air  was  near  — 

now  it's  a  wraith 

beyond  even  tiny  embodiment  I 

That  amorphous  haze, 

arpeggic  fall  of  those  leaves, 

glint  of  that  bird  —  or  was  it  a  squirrel?  — 

(had  it  been  a  rat  it  would  have  bitten  you!) 

they  ought  to  preach  your  heedlessness, 

no  man  can  essay  a  pavanne 

with  his  phrases  at  variance  — 

it  is  a  pavanne,  don't  deny  it ! 

And  why  propose  a  pavanne 

when  nobody  dances  pavannes, 


42  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

and  why  ask  a  flute 

to  mimic  the  tone  of  a  spinet? 

Dear  dunce  — 

your  tune  begins  to  sound  feminine  — 

go  away  — 

the  phrases  are  exquisite  daggers  — 

move  along,  move  along : 

we  have  all  sought  the  same  lady  twice ! 

ARABS 

Melancholy  lieth  dolorously  ill, 

one  heel  full  fatally  smitten : 

Melancholy  twitcheth  and  sigheth: 

"  Must  such  as  I,  because  of  an  itch, 

move  from  the  cheery  sloth  of  a  couch, 

from  watching  my  valorous  nomad  musings 

coming  and  passing  like  pilgrims  en  route 

from  mooning  philosophy  on  to  the  sun  — 

must  such  as  I,  almost  ready  to  follow  them, 

legs  follow  musings  like  sheep  follow  bells  — 

must  such  as  I,  because  of  a  scratch 

imprinted  by  small,  ignominious  teeth 

of  a  small,  black,  common,  effeminate  witch, 

surely  not  one  of  my  bidding  —  move? 

What  way  is  this,  God,  to  make  a  man  move?  " 

And  his  bed-fellow, 

Happiness,  petrified,  groaneth: 

"  What  way  is  this,  God,  to  make  a  man  stone?  " 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  43 


MIRAGE 

Yonder  hill 

lifts  its  blue  mist, 

like  a  lady  a  fan, 

and  lowers  it, 

enticing  you  further. 

Can  you  enfold  her?  — 

suppose  you  do?  — 

and  only  the  mist  embrace  you?  — 

don't  conclude  the  fan  the  lady ! 

Suppose  you  can't  ?  — 

and  the  mist  slap  your  face?  — 

don't  conclude  the  fan  a  fan, 

no  lady  behind  it  : 

yonder  hill 

lifts  its  blue  mist, 

like  a  lady  a  fan. 

PATCH 

I  shall  turn  my  yard  into  dahlias 

or  better  still,  marigolds ! 

I  cannot  endure 

the  spectre  of  its  baldness. 

I  am  old  — 

nay  worse,  middle-aged! 

The  very  young  girls 

no  longer  kiss  me  — 

with  objection? 


44  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

One  of  the  brazen  sect  — 

does  the  devil  send  them  back  from  the  past  ?  — 

actually  fondled  my  gnu's  beard, 

and  brushed  my  promontory  with  her  cheek, 

to  the  tune  of  "  pretty  patch,  pretty  patch !  " 

I  do  not  mind  being  loved  — 

but  I  do  care 

about  playing  specimen 

for  a  sensation 

a  very  young  girl 

cannot  have  of  a  very  young  man ! 

To-morrow  — 

nay,  to-night  — 

my  seeding  begins !  — 

Marigolds,  dahlias,  asters,  daisies,  weeds  — 

any  growth  will  do ! 

THRENODY 

I  have  been  a  snob  to-day. 
Scourge  me  with  a  thousand  thongs ! 
The  crowds  were  atoms  passing  by. 
Plunge  me  into  a  vat  of  tar ! 
Love  was  dead  all  day. 

Tyrant  I  had  a  feast  of  self. 
Hang  me  from  the  city  gallows ! 
His  harem,  pride  and  vanity. 
Throw  my  body  to  Doodle  Dandy ! 
Love  was  dead  all  day. 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  45 


Let  him  tear  my  I  from  me. 

Let  him  stick  it  on  a  pike. 

Let  him  dance  through  every  street, 

For  all  to  jeer,  for  all  to  damn. 

Love  was  dead  all  day. 

Let  him  fling  the  selfish  thing 
into  the  public  pool  of  shame. 
And  raise  a  stone  that  all  may  read, 
those  that  live  and  those  to  come : 
"  Love  was  dead  all  day." 

SUN-WATER 

Only  yesterday  — 

I  used 

to  carry 

my  old  winter  bones 

through  the  streets  — 

no  sun 

to  make  the  sap  in  them  stir  — 

no  stream 

to  make  the  sap  in  them  start  — 

and  now  that  I'm  here, 

sun  up  there,  stream  out  there, 

sun  out  there,  stream  up  there  — 

I  don't  know 

what  I  want  to  say, 

even  towards  a  vain 

little  self- tickling  song? 


46  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

Very  early  spring: 
will  you  wait  for  me  ? 

KEG 

What  use  is  this  stream  ?  — 

there  isn't  a  keg  anywhere 

for  us  to  ride, 

like  a  pony,  bareback  — 

if  we  had  a  keg  to  ride, 

we  wouldn't  be  tempted  to  beg  anywhere  — 

we  couldn't,  you  know,  on  a  keg  in  a  stream 

and  any  time  I'd  beg  of  you  — 

any  time  I  did,  and  you'd  think  me  too  near 

you'd  give  the  keg  a  kick  — 

and  I'd  roll  to  the  other  side  — 

what  use  is  this  stream? 

THE    HUDSON 

Great,  broad  stream: 

When  I  am  brave, 

will  you  carry  me  along 

to  your  mother,  the  sea?  — 

I've  heard  your  mother,  the  sea,  croon  afar, 

"  they  were  brave," 

as  she  cradles  their  bodies ; 

"  they  were  brave," 

your  child-echo  crooning  us  here. 

I  want  my  body  to  be  firm, 

my  face  and  eyes  smooth ; 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  47 


when  I  go  there  must  be  pride 

in  my  final  thought ;  equality 

with  my  eternal  fellows ;  shadow 

must  greet  shadows  with  clean  hand; 

this  is  no  time  to  take  me,  stream ; 

my  death  must  be  like  theirs ! 

And  she  — 

she  who  stands  behind  me, 

wistful,  glad  and  nodding  me  courage 

she,  too,  must  be  able  to  croon, 

"  he  was  brave." 


GOLDPIECES  AND  HEMSTITCHES 

««'• 

BELL 

I'm  full  of  children  this  morning. 

I  can  feel  them 

flying  kites 

all  the  way  up  and  down  my  veins. 

You  never  saw 

such  black  eyes,  bloody  noses, 

never  heard  such  laughter. 

When  school  time  comes, 

they'll  go  away  —  all  except  one. 

I  hope  that  bell  never  rings. 

GOLDPIECES 

Lads, 

along  the  way  of  my  time, 

I  have  stooped  to  many  pieces, 

most  of  them  bad. 

But  you 

like  their  jangle 

as  much  as  their  jingle. 

I 

Whether  you  earn  them  or  not,  A 

the  gold  ones  are  for  you. 

48 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  49 


CRADLE 

.  olue-eyed  youngster 
and  the  fat  old  man 
^ •  -/  ball  in  me. 
;id  music  — 

ne  his  penny  flute, 

>ther  his  bassoon. 

-L  .ioi  *  toleration  is  most  indulgent  — 
the  one  with  grins, 
the  other  with  a  smile. 
v  ;'   i  they  are  tired, 

go  to  bed  together, 
ju^h  their  dreams  — 

me  dreams  of  solemn  white  beards, 
the  other  of  twinkling  white  legs. 
The  woman, 

looks  in  on  them  at  times, 

?ul  not  to  disturb  them, 

this  time  best. 
...AC  rocks  their  cradle  for  them. 

CHINAMAN 

useless 
mtend 

her  superstitions. 
• :»  t  she  is  lovely 
and  loveth  thee 
should  quiet  thee. 


50  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

When  some  dream  of  hers, 

not  come  true, 

masters  her  and  masters  thee, 

then  is  the  night  to  cry, 

ah  me, 

and  seek  thy  bed.  .  .  . 

Smile  thy  prayer 
like  a  Chinaman. 

CBIES 

How  can  you  ask 
milk  of  her  heart 
when  she  only  has 
milk  in  her  breasts, 
milk  of  her  breasts 
destined  for  a  cry 
milk  in  her  heart 
could  never  nourish  ? 

MOLLUSC 

Try  your  dagger  elsewhere. 
You  will  only  snap  it  here. 
Her  heart  is  a  mollusc. 
It  never  leaves  her  body. 

BOY-UGHTNING 

Oh,  big  Mister  Cloud, 

send  me  a  black  cloak  like  yours  ? 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  51 

And  a  white  plume  and  ruffles  — 

And  your  dagger ! 

Maybe  it's  a  tomahawk ! 

Please,  Mister  Cloud, 

I'd  be  the  pride  of  the  street  like  you, 

and  scare  everybody  —  even  the  bullies ! 

Mother  wouldn't  dare  call  me  home ! 

And  your  blue  wings, 

maybe  you'd  send  me  your  wings  ? 

So  I  could  fly? 

Or  sail! 

Mister  Cloud,  you're  worse  than  a  giant  — 

how  you  growl,  how  you  glare,  how  you  shout  — 

don't,  don't  go  away,  don't,  don't  go  away ! 

You're  crawling  on  your  enemies  ? 

On  the  palefaces? 

Kill  'em,  kill  'em  all,  kill  'em,  kill  'em  all  — 

but  look  out,  Mister  Cloud ! 

Snatch  off  your  plume  or  they'll  see  you  — 

hide  your  tomahawk ! 

Oo,  Mister  Cloud! 

HEMSTITCHES 

Lasses, 

I  could  do  better 

hemstitches  for  you 


52  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

if  I  were  a  woman  — 

preferably  not  your  mother  — 

but  try  to  imagine 

that,  though  I  loved  such  as  you, 

older  than  you, 

I  will  never  love  you, 

and  I  will  sew  you  something 

you  can  tuck  away 

in  the  secret  drawer  of  your  dresser, 

you  may  take  out 

if  only  to  try  on  near  your  glass 

on  such  nights 

when  you  are  lonesome, 

and  no  boy  gives  you  a  thought. 

POLYSYLLABLE 

You  would  say  — 

a  girl  of  six 

is  hardly  old  enough  for  philosophy  — 

but  you  would  say,  wouldn't  you?  — 

a  girl  of  six 

is  old  enough  for  pain, 

old  enough  to  be  sought 

by  the  fashionable  lover,  death, 

and  his  thumbs  of  strangulation?  — 

and  you   would   say,   had   you   seen   her,   wouldn't 

you?  — 
a  girl  of  six 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  53 

is  old  enough  for  grammar 

and  the  adept  use  of  monosyllables 

with  the  intrusion  of  an  occasional  polysyllable?  — 

and  you  would  have  said,  had  you  heard  her,  wouldn't 

you?  — 

there  was  absolutely  no  theological  intention 
in  what  she  asked  — 
a  girl  of  six 

is  hardly  old  enough  for  that,  although 
her  mother  had  told  her,  God  had  made  her  — 
"  What  did  I  do  to  God 
that  He  does  this  to  me? 
Am  I  not  His  child  — 
or  did  I  misbehave?  " 

CLOVER 

The  next  time  you  come,  small  sister, 

you  and  your  shy  smaller  brother, 

you  lifting  your  head  and  pointing  your  eyes 

(clover  asleep  in  your  arms), 

he  too  small  to  be  braver  than  shy : 

If  I'm  not  at  home,  if  by  that  time, 

a  day  too  old,  I'm  asleep  in  the  ground, 

you  try  asking  him 

those  questions  that  wrinkled  my  head, 

(I  never  able  to  answer  a  question), 

and  when  your  brother  responds, 

if  by  that  time  he's  taller  than  shy, 


54  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

maybe  I'll  answer  too, 

with  the  nod  of  a  clover, 

if  by  that  time  I'm  a  clover  awake? 


ROUGE 

You,  lass 

(the  one-not-quite-dear-enough), 

are  such  and  such  a  person 

with  such  and  such  an  appearance. 

What's  that  you  say?  — 

there's  no  helping  the  latter? 

(Wait  —  you're  younger, 

quicker  than  I  — 

feminine,  more  feminine  — 

wait  and  I'm  with  you  — 

here's  what  I'm  coming  to  1) 

Redden  your  heart, 

not  your  face  — 

contract  it, 

squeeze  it, 

(you  know  what  I  mean?) 

hug  yourself, 

want  yourself, 

want  yourself  lovelier, 

(I  don't  mean  as  to  face!) 

and  it'll  redden,  have 

and  give  deeper  thrills  — 

and  you,  yes,  you  too  — 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  55 


(and  so  will  your  face!) 

and  win  wiser  fellows 

and  hold  them  much  longer ! 

what's  that  you  say? 

They,  even  they 

stay  longer  for  faces  ?  — 

perhaps  —  yes  —  but  — 

redden  it  anyhow, 

redden  it  all  the  more  — 

(what  I  mean  is  — 

what  I'm  coming  to) 

your  self-love  — 

which,  do  you  see, 

is  what  we  all  look  into  ?  — 

will  always 

give  you 

something  quite-dear-enough 

to  ponder  — 

and  as  to  those  chaps, 

(men  are  so  dull!) 

let  them  look  to  their  own ! 

Now,  should  one  of  them, 

even  one  of  them  — 

(blessed  with  instinct 

he  got  from  his  mother 

more  than  his  father  — 

that  you  may  swear  to !) 

should  such  a  one 

come  prying  — 


56  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

he  and  his  self-love  — 

with  an  idea 

(always  the  same  at  the  last) 

to  change  your  person  to  his  — 

thinking  he  can  do  so  — 

you  change  his  to  yours, 

if  you  can, 

and  if  you  can't, 

there's  no  use  anyhow  — 

he's  no  good  that  way  — 

if  it  must  be  that  way  — 

and  it  usually  must 

(unless  I'm  dull  too)  — 

so,  send  him  home  — 

give  him  a  bone  or  a  locket 

to  gnaw  at  or  finger  — 

there's  nourishment  in  memory  — 

his  pride  will  recover  — 

do  you  see? 

What's  that?  —  it's  sad?  - 

of  course !  —  everything  is !  — 

(and  so  much  the  better, 

life  so  much  richer!) 

for,  whether  you  win  him, 

or  he  win  you, 

or  you  lose  him, 

or  he  lose  you, 

(  and,  do  you  see, 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  57 


there's  never  the  one  nor  the  other?) 

of  course  —  it's  sad  —  everything  is  — 

(what  I  mean  is) 

that's  not  enough  reason 

for  sitting  so  glum  — 

flowers  don't  do  it !  .  .  . 

What  I'm  coming  to 

(  one  moment  more, 

hang  it  all  1)  — 

nobody'll  ever  get  you  — 

it'll  always  be  you 

that  chases  you 

and  catches  you, 

if  it  can !  — 

so,  hug  yourself, 

want  yourself, 

want  yourself  lovelier 

(here's  what  I  mean, 

I  suppose) 

for  your  own 

almost-dear-enough  sake  — 

and  your  face  will  do  the  rest  — 

if  it  must  — 

if  you  want  it  to  — 

if  you  can't  help  but  want  it  to  — 

you,  perhaps,  with  an  eye 

on  some  bee  of  a  chap 

you'd  like  to  give 


58  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

what  you  can  of  yourself  — 

(  of  you  —  to  him  —  for  you !  — 

the  sly  boomerang,  eh?) 

for  you  to  be  proud  of  — 

and  him  to  be  proud  of  — 

though,  as  I  say  — 

it's  only  himself  that  he's  after  — 

(you  two  and  your  two!) 

do  you  see? 

It's  a  muddle  —  I  know  — 

but  don't  droop  your  head  — 

that's  right !  —  get  up !  —  fine !  — 

Now  —  try  —  your  —  glass ! 

Eh? 

KATYDIDS 

Lass  and  lad, 

consider  your  friends  and  relations  — 

this  laughter  of  yours 

is  unmoral  —  immoral  really  t 

On  the  grave  of  one's  love,  nobody 

sings  a  katydid  duo, 

does  a  gargoyle  dance, 

drops  irresponsible  flowers ! 

Not  dead?     Yes,  it  is! 

The  one  slinks  this  way, 

the  other  slinks  that, 

when  you're  through  pirouetting? 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  59 


At  least  have  it  look  like  death  — 

joy  is  indecent, 

inconsiderate,  unsociable  — 

you'll  never  win  stones  in  that  fashion ! 


OLD  PEOPLE 

ENDINGS 

Life,  loving  to  listen 

to  old  folk 

arguing  the  comparative 

claims  upon  glory 

of  the  diseases  they've  had 

that  he  brought  them  — 

each  one's  resistance 

mightier  than  his  rivals', 

and  each  one's  pride 

gorgeously  inflating  the  facts  of  a  case 

and  Death,  just  loving  to  reflect 

on  the  cool,  healing  kiss, 

a  round  period  with  which 

she'll  seal  their  stories : 

these  twain 

are  almost  like  twins 

craving  the  same  old  tale 

be  told  in  the  same  old  way  — 

these  twain  would  be  twins 

were  it  not  for  the  preference, 

that  Life 

likes  his  to  end  in  adventure, 

while  Death 

likes  hers  to  end  at  home. 

60 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  61 


PHALLIC 

Hail,  steel 

spike  of  a  river, 
bending  and  straightening, 
forcing  and  twisting, 

driving  your  way 
down  the  bowels  of 

hills  and  mountains, 
bending  them  back  on  all  sides, 
breaking  them  open, 
tearing  up  children, 

stones  strewn  everywhere!  — 

Your  soft,  clear  look  with  its 

stone-white  thought  — 
hail,  crooked  grandmother, 
humped  on  a  boulder, 
eyeing  your  daughters, 
heedless  of  thought 
from  heeding  their  reckless, 

stone-smooth, 
shell-tinted  offspring  — 
none  old  enough 
to  think  as  you  do  — 
hail  to  your  look  as  it  lights 

still  softer 
on  the  filthy  (some  would  say) 

little  boys 


62  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

digging  their  way 

down  the  mud  of  its  banks ! 

A  WHILE 

Rain  drops, 

passionately  gregarious, 

passionately  garrulous, 

as  they  come, 

driven  like  tears 

from  Eden's  trees, 

in  fore-knowledge 

of  house-tops 

where  egos  scatter  — 

unless  and  until 

they  touch  ground-holes 

where  egos  stick 

and  at  least  do  some  good  — 

are  the  kin  of 

blood  drops,  tongues 

and  the  words 

of  old  people, 

reminiscently  gregarious, 

reminiscently  garrulous  — 

unless  and  until 

they  have  children. 

This  is  why 

I  hearken  the  childless, 

and  assume  the  role 

of  repartee  breezes : 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  63 


juggling  rain 
or  juggling  blood, 
breezes  keep  drops 
from  falling  — 
a  while. 

MIDDLE-AGE 

She, 

like  an  old-time  street  organ 

which  has  lost  its  half-tones, 

or  never  had  any, 

is  frantically  running  the  diatonic  — 

whether  to  find  those  tones, 

or  to  save  the  loss  of  these  she  has, 

is  not  for  me  to  know. 

The  one  for  whom  she  plays 
is  a  wheezy  accordeon 
whose  one  everlasting  tonality 
lies  in  a  foreign  key. 

OLD    MARRIAGE 

That  old  fool  — 

as  the  men-folk  sneer  — 

trudging  the  hill  — 

his  mule-day  over  — 

is  it  because  his  back  is  bent  — 

that  he  carries  those  dandelions  — 

the  easier  to  reach  if  you're  bent  ?  — 


64  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

or  is  it  because  — 

as  the  women-folk  sigh  — 

he  has  warmed-over  whims  — 

for  that  other  old  fool  — 

at  the  top  of  the  hill  — 

is  it  the  sunset  beckons  him  to  ? 

OLD    BEGGAR    HEELS 

The  right  of  the  heel 

of  her  right  shoe  and 

the  left  of  the  heel  of  her  left 

are  worn  to  the  ground, 

so  wabbly  and  low 

does  she  bend  her  knees, 

so  long  has  she  done  it  there. 

Give  her  a  penny, 
and  you  will  see. 
If  you  want  to  be  sure, 
give  her  two. 

TRIANGLES:  IN  MEMORY  OF  H.  c.  K. 

This  is  the  last  long  tired  day ; 
the  omnipresence  of  dissolution, 
dwarfed  to  the  circle  of  each  eye. 

The  dance  of  his  breathing, 

quicker  and  louder  than  scraping  of  feet, 

ceases  like  sap  in  leaves  that  are  still. 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  65 

One  eye  says  to  (mother: 
This  was  a  dance  like  staccato  of  steel 
in  the  hand  of  an  invisible  madman 
thrusting  the  past  with  the  final  deep  twist. 

One  eye  says  to  another: 
His  eyes  brushed  mine  like  dogs, 
which  I  must  house  and  feed, 
lest  I  be  henceforth  alone. 

One  eye  says  to  another: 
I'm  afraid  to  breathe  in, 
for  fear  of  breathing  out; 
yet  breathe  out,  one  must,  to  breathe  in. 

One  eye  says  to  another: 
But  there's  comfort  in  formulas, 
in  the  easy  triangular  round ; 
have  his  stone-lip  lisp  it  again : 

Eyes  breathe  softly  to  eyes: 
May  this  entity, 
now  a  nonentity, 
not  lose  identity. 

Eyes  embrace  eyes  .  .  . 
and  dance  his  dirge  .  .  . 
to  their  own  minuets  . 


66  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 


PROSE  RHYTHMS,  1906 

A    LOVER    TELLS 

It  is  a  bit  of  a  river  that  flows  between  two  strips 
of  land.  Thousands  of  honeyless  hives  bury  the 
strip  on  this,  thousands  the  strip  on  that  side  — 
honeyless  hives  choked  by  honeyless,  two-legged  lives 
—  but  what  of  these?  It  is  night. 

It  is  night,  and  a  song,  borne  by  a  friendly  wind, 
steals  across  the  river,  across  from  yonder  side  to 
this,  across  to  me.  It  is  not  a  song  of  night's ;  it  is 
not  a  song  of  Nature's ;  it  is  not  a  song  of  the  gods. 
It  is  ...  but  stay  !  It  is  not  for  you.  Your  name 
is  Profanation;  you  are  of  the  honeyless  two-legs 
that  choke  the  honeyless  hives  that  bury  the  earth  .  .  . 

It  is  a  bit  of  a  river  that  flows  between.  It  is 
night.  A  song  steals  across  to  me.  And  only  the 
river  'twixt  singer  and  me ! 

A  POOR  MAN  TELLS 

Nature,  like  some  harlot  of  the  streets,  was  wear- 
ing her  freshest  rouge  and  her  latest  fashion's  cos- 
tume. Behind  the  rouge  and  the  costume,  the  old 
allurement  watched  and  waited:  the  still  tempting 
face,  the  still  voluptuous  body.  It  was  poor  I  who 
chanced  to  pass  that  way,  and  stopped,  though  much 
against  my  will.  And  Nature  whispered  me  some- 
thing: whispered  me  her  price  with  her  sighing,  ca- 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  67 

joling  voice.  I  moved  on  a  little,  hesitated  and 
stopped  again.  Yes,  I  would  have  dared,  but  I 
could  not  dare.  I  would  have  dared  to  approach, 
look  into  the  ever  tempting  face,  raise  the  garment 
and  enjoy  the  ever  voluptuous  body.  But  I  could 
not  dare :  Nature's  price  was  too  high  for  my  soul's 
thin  pocketbook.  And  I  passed  on,  though  much 
against  my  will. 

A    MADMAN    TELLS 

Mirrored  in  the  depths  of  thy  twin  tarns  of  love- 
liness so  tender,  where,  as  elsewhere,  spring  laughs, 
summer  roves,  autumn  dreams  and  winter  sleeps ; 
and  where,  as  elsewhere,  joy  and  passion  and  melan- 
choly and  sorrow  pass  their  lives,  so  constant  and 
so  pure,  certain  twin  reflections  have  enshrined  them- 
selves in  holy,  beatific  solitude.  Ripples  come,  dis- 
port themselves,  chase  one  another  and  disappear, 
and  the  tarns  frown  or  smile  as  is  their  mood.  The 
wind,  jealous,  of  an  avaricious  temper,  and  weary  of 
the  love  of  flowers  and  butterflies,  deserts  his  south- 
ern clime  to  woo  these  brides  with  his  song,  so  melo- 
dious, so  haunting,  so  compelling.  But  the  tarns 
frown  or  smile  as  is  their  mood.  The  feathered  chil- 
dren of  the  air  fly  from  afar  and,  in  the  joy  of  the 
moment,  serenade  the  consecrated  spot  with  their 
poignant  outpouring  of  an  idolatrous  invocation. 
But  the  tarns  frown  or  smile  as  is  their  mood.  Not- 
withstanding that  the  ripples  come  and  disport  them- 


68  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

selves,  that  the  wind  steals  hither  to  woo,  that  the 
children  of  the  air  gather  for  their  invocation,  the 
twin  reflections  lament  not,  neither  do  they  sorrow. 
For  the  ripples  will  go  and  the  wind  will  go  and  the 
air  folks  will  go,  hence,  far  away,  to  unknown  climes, 
to  return  again,  but  only  to  go,  always  to  go. 
Therefore,  the  twin  reflections  are  happy,  immortally 
happy,  whether  spring  laugh  or  summer  rove  or  au- 
tumn dream  or  winter  sleep,  for,  in  the  depths  of  the 
tarns  they  have  enshrined  themselves  in  holy,  beati- 
fic solitude,  living,  sleeping  and  dreaming  an  ever- 
lasting elysium  of  elysian  transcendentalism.  Bliss- 
ful, ah,  blissful  I ! 

A    DEAD    MAN    TEL]JS 

Indifferently,  and  yet,  with  an  unbiased  sort  of 
half  sportiveness,  half  seriousness,  the  rain  beats 
down  on  my  grave.  The  wind  comes  driving  along 
from  his  home  in  the  north-east,  causing  the  trees  to 
sing  an  unearthly  air,  now  a  dirge  and  now  a  scherzo. 
Down  here,  inside  this  lovely  ebony  casket  that  was, 
the  worms,  partly  in  joy  and  partly  in  regret,  help 
themselves  to  that  which  is  left  of  me  to  be  digni- 
fied with  the  name,  Body,  at  the  same  time  giving  me 
the  delightful  assurance  that  my  skeleton  days  and 
those  days  when  I  am  to  romp  with  companion  dust 
atoms  are  not  so  far  hence.  What  an  inestimable 
pleasure  it  is  for  me  to  reflect,  that  when  Nature, 
assisted  by  these  gentle  myrmidons  of  hers,  shall  have 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  69 

realized  her  little  business  of  the  decomposition  of  my 
body,  she  will  have  succeeded  with  an  even  closer 
artistic  completeness  than  Life  and  his  myrmidons  in 
their  decomposition  of  that  part  of  me  which  I  once 
tried  to  dignify  with  the  name,  Soul ! 


DOROTHY 

HER    EYES 

Her  eyes  hold  black  whips  — 

dart  of  a  whip 

lashing,  nay,  flicking, 

nay,  merely  caressing 

the  hide  of  a  heart  — 
and  a  broncho  tears  through  canyons 

walls  reverberating, 

sluggish  streams 

shaken  to  rapids  and  torrents, 

storm  destroying 

silence  and  solitude! 
Her  eyes  throw  black  lariats  — 

one  for  his  head, 

one  for  his  heels  — 
and  the  beast  lies  vanquished  — 

walls  still, 

streams  still  — 

except  for  a  tarn, 

or  is  it  a  pool, 

or  is  it  a  whirlpool 

twitching  with  memory? 


70 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  71 

HEE    HAIR 


Her  hair 
is  a  tent 

held  down  by  two  pegs  — 

ears,  very  likely  — 
where  two  gypsies  — 

lips,  dull  folk  call  them  — 
read  your  soul  away: 
one  promising  something, 
the  other  stealing  it. 

If  the  pegs  would  let  go  — 

why  is  it  they're  hidden?  — 
and  the  tent 

blow  away  —  drop  away  — 
like  a  wig  —  or  a  nest  — 

maybe 
you'd  escape 
paying  coin 
to  gypsies  — 

maybe  — 

HER    HANDS 

Blue  veins 

of  morning  glories  — 
blue  veins 

of  clouds  — 
blue  veins 

bring  deep-toned  silence 

after  a  storm. 


72  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

White  horns 

of  morning  glories  — 
white  flutes 

of  clouds  — 
sextettes  hold  silence  fast, 

cup  it  for  aye. 
Could  I 

blow  morning  glories  — 
could  I 

lip  clouds  — 
I'd  sound  the  silence 

her  hands  bring  to  me. 
Had  I 

the  yester  sun  — 
had  I 

the  morrow's  — 
brush  them  like  cymbals, 

I'd  then  sound  the  noise. 


HER    BODY 


Her  body  gleams 

like  an  altar  candle  — 

white  in  the  dark  — 

and  modulates 

to  voluptuous  bronze  — 

bronze  of  a  sea  — 

under  the  flame. 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  73 


CLAY 

I  wish 

there  were  thirteen 

gods  in  the  sky, 

even  twelve  might  achieve  it : 

Or  even 
one  god 
in  me: 

Alone, 

I  can't  shape 

an  image  of  her. 

OVALS 

I  find  my  faith 
in  two  oval  rooms 
an  inch  apart : 
uncertain  in  the  one, 
I  have  only  to  glance  at  the  other ! 

ALCHEMY 

Not  even  rain 

could  make  her  lovelier  — 

and  I  am  no  god. 

OTHERS 
There  is  too 
the  love  of  her 


74  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

through  others' 
love  of  her. 


There  is  too 
the  love  of  her 
through  others' 
love  of  her 
love  of  me. 

There  is  even 
the  love  of  her 
though  others' 
love  of  her 
be  only 
love  of  my 
love  of  her. 


THREE 


I  and  my 

lovely  lady 

sit  down 

where  we  can  see  each  other 

and  chat  about 

the 

lovely  lady 

I  and  my 

lovely  lady 

love. 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  75 


WESTMINSTER 

The  niche 

cut  for  her 

by  chance  and  her  and  me 

might  be  deeper 

if  chance  and  she  and  I 

had  been  some  other 

chance  and  she  and  I. 

But  there  it  is ! 

AGATE 

Memories  take  the  impress  of  shadows 
one  breathes  on  the  face  of  a  stream : 
black  agate  the  shadow  she  leaves. 

ILLUSIONS 

This  tree, 

whose  top  flirted  with  the  sky, 

whose  branches  dared  the  uttermost  east  and  west, 

whose  roots  penetrated  China, 

whose  leaves  were  elves  — 

My  companion  gone, 
it  is  less  than  a  shrub. 

JADE 

Towards  the  green  and  age 
of  Chinese  jade, 


76  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

the  moods  and  thoughts 
of  the  eyes  and  leaves 
of  the  cat  and  tree 
in  the  tiny  close 
of  my  her  for  me 
lift  and  lower : 
lower,  then  lift 
towards  my  me  for  her, 
the  age  and  green 
of  the  Chinese  love 
I  feel  for  her, 
and  try  to  carve 
and  pray  to  see 
in  this  jade  for  her. 

IMAGE 

Showing  her  immortal  — 

it's  mine  to  do  — 

but  I  can't. 

Shaping  her  — 

just  as  she  is  — 

a  thing 

to  turn  a  glance 

to  an  eternity  — 

mood  shaping  form  — 

imperishable  — 

it's  there  — 

I  can  see  it  — 

but  I  can't  say  it. 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  77 


There's  no  secret  about  it  — 
she  tells  it 

every  breathing,  breathless  moment  — 
I  can  hear  it  — 
,  but  I  can't  say  it. 

What  can  my  mere 
body  and  scrivening 
leave  you,  if 
it  doesn't  leave  you  her? 

1  If  I  could  transcribe 
one  infinitesimal  phase 
of  the  trillion-starred  endowment 
which  comes  tumbling 
out  of  simply  trying  to  look  at  her, 
or  out  of  catching  a  glance, 
slyly  pointed, 
trying  to  look  at  me, 
stirring  a  trillion-starred  emotion, 
vibrating  like  a  bell 
across  endless  tides  of  endless  seas  — 
I'd  do  it  — 
but  I  can't. 

I  love  her  so  much, 

I  can't  do  anything  else. 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

SCEAP 

I'm  a  scrap  of  paper  — 

nothing  to  look  at  or  ponder,  they  think, 

who  see  but  themselves  wherever  they  crawl ! 

To  urchin  and  artist, 

ragpicker,  seer  — 

I'm  shiny,  crinkly,  shapely,  white! 

Out  come  their  heads,  like  turtles',  they  do ! 

PUMP 

I'm  not  the  scullery-scrub  of  the  street ! 

Let  wind,  rain  and  sun  rinse  and  shine  it ! 

I'm  a  low  round  steady  back 

for  a  child 

who  hasn't  reached  boyhood 

to  learn  leap-frogging  — 

and  for  a  boy 

who's  reached  manhood  — 

not  to  forget ! 

PUDDUE 

If  your  feather's  gone  crooked  in  the  wind,  try  me 
I'm  the  mirror,  lass,  you  couldn't  take  along! 

78 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  79 

If  the  city's  made  you  lose,  lad,  your  lake  in  the 

woods : 

I'm  the  pool  —  wade  in !  —  you  didn't  leave  behind ! 
If  your  legs  have  softened  muscles  from  living  in  a 

house : 
take  a  jump  across  my  breast  —  it's  water  you  need 

now! 
If  you've  stumbled  on  the  habit  of  staring  at  the 

ground : 
pay  me  the  fare  of  a  glance,  and  I'll  ride  you  to  the 

sky! 

SHOW-CASE 

Twenty-four  white  collars 

will  find  twenty-four  callers : 

if  he  lives  well,  size  sixteen, 

thin,  old  or  vain,  size  twelve : 

bad,  a  noose  were  fitter,  dead,  a  wreath, 

sixteen  or  twelve  quite  the  same : 

so,  for  the  temporal  present,  come, 

twenty-four  callers,  and  find 

twenty-four  white  collars ! 

CIGAR-INDIAN 

My  tomahawk  — 

will  it  descend —  strike  —  cleave  a  white  skull? 

No  —  I  am  obsolete  — 

a  servile  symbol 

of  the  art  of  my  ancestors  fallen  a  trade  — 

inside,  the  symbol  of  conquest  — 


80  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

a  shopkeeper  —  this  one  a  German ! 

Behold  in  me, 

the  defeat  of  the  past  — 

sculptured  dissolution; 

and  the  new  scarecrow  — 

man  turned  to  wood ! 

May  the  next  who  tomahawks  peace  — 

take  my  place ! 

CIGAR-BUTT 

I'm  the  shabby  relic  of  yestereve — 
spent  it  with  a  lady  and  a  gentleman  — 
lady  cost  him  thirteen  dollars,  fourteen  agonies  — 
I  but  fifteen  cents  f 

Yet  I  who  helped  him  with  his  revery  — 
I  who  helped  him  decide  to  marry  her  — 
I  who   helped  him  better   than   stammer   the  pro- 
posal — 

helped  him  reform,  give  up  painting,  stait  in  busi- 
ness, start  a  home  — 

home,  children,  furniture,  trappings  and  all, 
all  a  consequential  adjunct  to  the  realm  — 
I  who  helped  him  be  what  he  is  — 
me  he  threw  in  the  gutter  — 
me,  at  least,  the  tomb  of  what  he  was ! 

IJSTTER-BOX 

Lift  your  hand  to  mine  — 

a  little  higher  —  don't  be  timid  — 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  81 

and  to-morrow  —  or  Thursday,  the  latest  — 

another  —  smaller  than  yours  — 

will  approach  my  green  brother's  — 

(Toledo,  did  you  say?) 

and  the  next  day  —  or  Saturday,  the  latest  — 

still  another  —  my  gray  brother's  — 

will  return  your  boomerang! 

DUST 

We  are  molecules  — 

whose  fate  it  is  to  quarrel  — 

who  knows  why? 

It  isn't  when  we're  underfoot  — 

it's  when  we're  in  the  air  — 

two  of  us  after  one  air-hole! 

We  don't  do  it  — 

we  like  being  still  — 

it's  the  wind  does  it! 

Do  lovers  know  why? 

PAKK-BENCH 

I'm  long  and  green  and  cool 
like  the  tree  that  I  came  from. 
They  set  me  here, 
the  ones  who  are  long  on  green, 
to  keep  cool  the  ones  who  aren't. 
And  to  render  back  to  God, 
through  me  if  they  can, 


82  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

what  they  have  stolen 

of  the  freedom  of  things! 

WEIGHING-MACHINE 

There's  the  one  who  wheedles  — 

"  lift  your  pointer  three  pounds  higher  "  — 

and  the  other  who  wheedles  — 

"  drop  it  three  pounds  lower  " — 

always  meeting  in  the  sorry  duet  — 

"  so  I  find  favor  with  him  I  " 

I  say  to  them  both,  to  them  all  — 

weight  is  the  substance  of  earthly  endeavor, 

and  if  I  were  a  man, 

science  would  choose  me  the  bigger, 

since  decomposition  asserts, 

the  nearer  to  lean,  the  nearer  to  death, 

and  self-preservation, 

the  nearer  to  stout,  the  nearer  to  life  — 

but  as  I'm  a  weighing-machine, 

set  here  to  adjudicate  avoirdupois, 

wisdom  would  choose  me  the  smaller : 

she  gives  me  lighter  work  to  do  — 

and  some  day,  some  stout  one  will  kill  me! 

DUNG 

I  have  my  uses  too : 
I  relieve  satiety : 
I  satisfy  hunger: 
horse  and  fly! 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  83 

And  my  country  cousin: 

cattle  and  grain ! 

If  we  didn't: 

where  would  man  be? 

ELECTRIC    SIGN 

I  call  your  attention  to  me  — 

I  am  America ! 

I  come  in  the  dark  — 

I  burn  and  blaze  the  dark  away ! 

I  am  electricity  — 

I  set  fire  to  the  street, 

like  lightning  all  heaven! 

Whether  you  want  to  or  whether  you  don't, 

you've  got  to  see  me  — 

the  biggest  crowd  in  the  world  comes  to  me  — 

richest  and  poorest  —  j  oiliest  brotherhood  — 

crowds  jostle  crowds  for  me  — 

I  am  Broadway ! 

Whether  you  need  it  or  whether  you  don't, 

you've  got  to  buy  what  I  sell  — 

I  sell  the  products  of  this,  my  land, 

as  multiform,  numerous  and  skillfully  contrived 

as  the  tiniest  particles 

of  this,  my  earth  and  mountains, 

of  this,  my  lakes  and  rivers, 

of  this,  my  stars  and  sky ! 

My  neighbor  there  —  he's  selling  the  same  — 

it's  the  best  on  the  globe  —  after  mine ! 


84  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

We're  competitors  in  the  main  artery 

of  strife  which  gives  life  to  the  body 

and  perpetual  ore  to  the  soul! 

I  was  born  in  America  — 

I  was  made  in  America  — 

and  I'll  go  to  the  scrap-heap  of  America  — 

to  make  room  for  some  greater  American! 

Do  I  brag?  — 

sensitive,  cultured,  reticent  foreigner, 

why  shouldn't  I?  — 

I'm  the  ego  of  the  new  world  — 

Africa  —  Asia  —  Europe  — 

the  old  world's  dead  —  I'm  the  new ! 

I  call  your  attention  to  me  — 

I  come  in  the  dark  — 

skeptical  foreigner,  mark  you  this  boast  — 

yesterday's  history,  prepare  a  new  page: 

To-morrow,  you'll  see  me  in  Europe! 

BITS 

I  found  these  bits 

while  going  along 

from  Fourteenth  Street  to  Forty-second. 

How  could  those  fellows  ask  a  fellow  going  along 

policeman,  vender,  truck  driver, 

motorman,  and  even  the  snobbish  chauffeur  — 

how  could  they  bawl  out  that  symphony, 

cacophonous  and  contrapuntal  — 

"  where  in  Hell  are  you  going?  "  — 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  85 

at  a  fellow  with  nothing  but  a  pencil  and  a  pad  ? 
You  have  to  be  blind,  hard  of  hearing, 
to  see  what  street  things  do ! 
You  have  to  change  to  a  thing, 
ere  things  can  speak  to  you! 


COINS 

I.  COPPER 

Some  bodies  chase  pennies, 

and  live  penny  lives, 

by  hoarding  three  pennies, 

in  fear  of  just  two; 

then  hoarding  two  pennies, 

in  fear  of  just  one; 

then  hoarding  one  penny, 

in  fear  of  the  zero, 

as  round  in  its  emptiness, 

perfectly  round, 

as  bodies  all  are 

which  chase  pennies. 

II.  SILVER 

Whether  winds  chase  the  clouds, 
or  clouds  chase  the  winds ; 
whether  shadows  the  grasses, 
or  grasses  the  shadows ; 
which  part  of  the  circle 


86  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

starts  chasing  the  rest's 

unimportant ;  important 

that  bodies  chase  bodies 

with  undulating, 

mystic  caresses 

of  unseen  wings: 

wings  brushing  wings. 

m.     GOLD 

Something  flipped  somebody 
into  the  air,  and  he  fell, 
head  over  tail  over  head  over  tail, 
a  moth  blind  with  stars, 
clutching  light,  clutching  dark : 

here  —  where  — 
hand  of  man,  feet  of  bug: 
fail  not  to  turn  him,  if 
you  would  have  both  of  him, 
undermost,  equal  to,  if  not 
as  cleanly  as  uppermost: 

see? 


THE  ROUND  OF  A  FIVE  AND  TEN  CENT 
STORE 

THINGS 

We  five  and  ten  cent  things  are  small  — 

but  — 

neglect  of  a  button  may  lose  you  your  job, 
hook  and  eye  crooked,  her  social  prestige: 
angles  of  pins  web  her  hair,  luring  you, 
a  prince  in  her  thought  with  a  pin  in  your  tie: 
unseen  safeties  smooth  her  bodice  round  her  breast, 
unseen  stitches,  your  jacket  round  your  chest: 
we  five  and  ten  cent  things  are  small  — 

but  — 

a  but  can  grow  bigger  than  a  tragedy,  sir  I 
Here's  seed  for  your  bird,  sir  —  come,  make 

it  smg! 

RING 

Now  —  the  fourth  finger  tip 
of  her  left  hand  — 
that's  the  lip  to  her  heart  — 
the  digit  itself,  sir,  the  artery  — 
so  —  if  you  touch  the  tip  with  your  tip  — • 
index  tip  of  your  right  — 
then  —  if  her  heart  likes  it  — 

87 


88  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

it'll  teU  the  digit, 

which'll  tell  the  tip, 

which'll  tell  your  lip  — 

whether  to  buy  mei 

Or  —  better  still  — 

take  her  tip  between  index  and  thumb  — 

like  a  telegrapher  — 

you  can  never  be  sure  of  a  method  with  woman! 

Then  —  oh  t  — 

is  this  the  lady  ?  — 

gee,  she's  nice !  — 

why'd  you  not  say  you  knew  how?  — 

bashful  ?  —  I  know !  — 

I  hope  I'll  do?  —  ah! 

That'll  cost  you  a  nickel,  sir  —  thank  you! 

HATCHET     VERSUS     HAMMER 

The  past  needs  chopping  away: 

buy  a  "  Washington  "  hatchet  —  that's  me ! 

The  present  needs  knocking  fast : 

don't  buy  a  "  King  "  hammer  —  that's  him ! 

Use  my  edge  for  the  one, 

my  back  for  the  other : 

one  man's  job  is  a  better  man's  job ! 

There 's  choppmg  to  do  every  day,  sir! 

PAPER    ROSES 

We're  stronger  than  Nature's  roses  — 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  89 

grew  from  the  tendrils  of  women  — 

each  woman's  ten  tendrils  — 

for  the  j  oy  of  other  women  — 

east  side  women  — 

and  the  gift  of  east  side  men  — 

east  side  pocketbooks! 

Women  know  women  — 

make  roses  which  last! 

They'll  cost  you  a  dime,  sir  —  thank  you! 

THIMBLE 

I'm  intended 

for  her  third  finger  tip  — 

lest  a  needle  prick  it  — 

and  for  the  tips  of  her  lashes  — 

should  a  word-needle,  them! 

Lip  salve'tt  help  the  hurt  if  you  do,  sir! 

COFFEE-MILL 

Like  Mother  Dew 

bent  over  her  soil  — 

grind  away  merrily  — 

make  the  morning  smell  brown  — 

till  the  whole  room  itself  churn  round! 

Coffee  boils  deeper  than  roses,  sir! 


DISHES 

A  lot  of  us  together  * — 
we  do  look  prosperous  — 


90  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

make  a  funny  clatter  — 

our  curves  best  for  mouths  — 

our  flats  load  whole  muttons  — 

our  sides  walls  for  gravy! 

Gravy  —  there's  the  danger  — 

pray  God,  don't  bring  her 

a  lot  of  us  together  — 

a  dish  pan's  a  grave  — 

and  dish  water's  gravy 

that'll  foul  the  meat  of  your  love  — 

and  stick  to  the  remains  like  a  shroud ! 

Don't  let  those  glasses  squeeze,  sir  —  they're  fragile! 

MOUSE-TRAP 

You  two  need  a  trap  with  four  holes  : 

one  to  catch  her  illusions: 

one  to  catch  yours : 

one  to  catch  your  self-love : 

one  to  catch  hers: 

only  then  will  one  cheese  last  you  two! 

Warranted  to  'kill  as  soon  as  they  nibble,  sir! 

AISLES 

Your  eyes  have  spied  us: 

your  feet  have  come  and  gone ! 

Your  hands  have  reached  across  us: 

salesgirls  reached  you  theirs ! 

Ribbons  you  bought  tied  her  hat  to  her  head: 

we're  more  than  ribbons  that  tie  her  to  you ! 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  91 

Nighttime,  it's  we  that  can't  close  our  eyes : 
daytime,  it's  we  that  pray  you'll  return! 
Aigrettes?  —  not  here,  sir!  —  they'd  fly  away! 

NICKEILS    AND    DIMES 

You  helped  us  build  our  skyscraper! 

We've  helped  you  build  yours ! 

May  God  tip  the  spire! 

Costs  a  prayer  extra,  sir  —  don't  mention  it! 

BOUND 

A  mere  poet 

is  penniless. 

Mightn't  he  try 

a  round  poem 

to  bind  her? 

That'll  bring  her  liberty,  sir! 


PHYSIOLOGY 

I^EAVES 

We  were  green,  green !  — 
till  they  wrung  out  our 
blood,  the  green  sap! 
Now  we  are  white  — 
white  as  white  can  be  to  the  eye, 
black  as  white  can  be  to  the  thought ! 
Lines,  thin  lines  are  our  veins  — 
most  of  them,  horizontal  parallels, 
two  of  them,  vertical  parallels !  — - 
horizontals  blue,  verticals  pink, 
mocking  the  texture  of  man- veins  I  — 
the  pink,  erect  as  two  columns, 
mocking  the  stability  of  civilization! 

He  holds  us  down  with  one  hand 
and  with  the  other,  gripping  a  feather, 
spatters  us  with  hieroglyphs!  — 
not  like  an  aboriginal, 

red-burning  African,  red-burning  Eskimo!  — 
but  like  any  white  civilian 
with  his  hieroglyphs,  hieroglyphs, 
some  down  one  column,  some  down  the  other, 

92 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  93 

more  down  one  column,  more  down  the  other  — 

hating,  detesting,  knifing  each  other 

as  only  a  debit  and  credit  can  hate ! 

We  were  green !  — 

we  used  to  sing 

to  the  wand  of  the  wind! 

EYES 

We  are  his  eyes. 

We  do  not  see. 

We  do  not  see  grain, 

we  see  people; 

we  do  not  see  people, 

we  see  people  gathering  grain; 

we  do  not  see  people  gathering  grain, 

we  see  people  loading  freight  cars; 

we  do  not  see  people  loading  freight  cars, 

we  see  freight  cars  en  route ; 

we  do  not  see  cars, 

we  see  endless  eels, 

eels  of  white  tape; 

we  do  not  see  tape, 

we  see  figures ; 

we  do  not  see  figures  — 

gold  is  what  we  see. 

We  are  his  eyes. 

We  tell  him, 

buy  wheat  at  par ! 


94  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

STOMACH 

I  told  him  — 

that  even  in  love  — 

that  thought  for  the  without  — 

one  must  preserve  oneself. 

I  told  him  — 

a  little  love  is  admissible  — 

all-love  suicidal. 

I  told  him  — 

even  if  one  love  a  little, 

one  must  preserve  oneself* 

I  told  him  — 

even  in  fair  play  — 

the  love  phrase  of  commerce, 

which  calls  for  a   recognition  of  the  balance 

between  two  factors  or  people  — 

one  must  preserve  oneself. 

It's  fine  to  say,  but  not  fair, — 

not  fair  to  oneself  — 

"  My  dear  sir,  I'd  like  to  offer  you  more  than  you 

ask  "— 

that's  an  instance  of  loving, 
of  a  thought  for  the  without  — 
not  an  instance  of  living, 
of  the  thought  for  the  within  — 
as  I  told  him. 

He  said, —  but  that  was  years  ago  — 
"  Mustn't  I  save  my  soul?  " — 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  95 

and  I  said, —  and  that  was  instantaneously  — 

"  Your  body's  your  soul  — 

and  even  if  it  isn't  — 

don't  you  need  a  body  to  preserve  your  soul?  " 

I'm  proud  of  my  pupil. 

I  told  him  — 

and  he  was  only  a  stripling. 

I  haven't  had  to  tell  him  since. 

HEABT 

I  was  his  heart.  .  .  . 

I  felt  like  a  woman  once. 

I  used  to  stand  at  the  well, 

pumping  blood,  lifting  blood, 

blood  as  clean  as  water, 

and  drop  it  into  his  pore-cups, 

millions  of  clean  pore-cups.   .  .  . 

Wriggling  things  slid  into  the  well. 

Things  his  stomach  vomited. 

That  hag  of  the  devil,  his  stomach.  .  .  . 

They  had  to  live. 

Even  I  will  say,  even  they  must  live. 

So  they  devoured  my  blood. 

Smuttied  it,  soaked  it  in  slime. 

And  left  offal.  .  .  . 

I  am  his  heart.  .  .  . 

I  pump  offal,  lift  offal. 

Offal  is  what  I  give. 

Offal  the  pore-cups  receive.  .  .  . 


96  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

I  used  to  sing  at  my  labors. 
I  don't  sing  now. 
I  whisper  a  curse.  .  .  . 
I  am  his  hate.  .  .  . 

BRAINS 

We  are  weary.  .  .  . 

We  exist  in  the  back  of  his  head. 

We  are  the  worms  squirming  there. 

Kick  open  some  earth  and  you'll  see  us. 

We  are  his  machinery. 

Look  at  machines  and  you'll  see  us. 

Their  veins  twist  like  ours.  .  .  . 

He  keeps  us  slaving. 

Day-time,  over-time,  dreaming-time. 

He,  a  slave,  keeps  us  slaving.  .  .  . 

There's  a  god  in  his  middle. 

He's  worm  to  that  god. 

Poke  a  worm's  middle,  you'll  see  him.  .  , 

We  want  to  rest. 

To  lie  out  flat. 

We  want  him  to  die.  .  .  . 

Though  earth  worms  go  on. 

Do  outside  what  we  did  inside. 

Brother  worms  wearier.  .  .  . 

Wearier  than  we  are.  .  .  . 


CITY  DANDELIONS 

JASMINE    WAY 

I  hear  it  was  a  girl? 

Why,  they  were  saying  it  was  a  girl? 

Isn't  that  nice  and  what  are  you  calling  him? 

I'd  an  uncle  by  that  name  —  it's  so  pretty  —  when's 

the  christening? 
I  must  wear  my  new  white  frock  —     Jonathan  — 

they'll  call  him  Johnny  —  have  you  tried  our 

new  green  grocer? 
So  much  cheaper  than  old  Fleischmann  —  yours  a 

boy,  the  Jones'  a  girl  —  they'll  be  sweethearts 

when  they're  bigger? 
Well,  I  never  —  what  with  Mary  Hatfield  soon,  and 

the   Spindles   to  be  married,  Jasmine  Way  is 

certainly  growing  — 
Good  day  to  you,  mam ! 

LANES 

Do  you  wish  to  hear  songs, 

silent  songs, 

gone, 

to  come, 

or  never  to  come, 

no  lane  of  fallen  leaves, 

97 


98  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

however  red  or  brown  or  gold, 

however  soft  to  the  tread, 

is  as  caressing 

as  the  hard  gray  flagstone 

of  a  city  street. 

Look  at  one  and  hear. 

CITY    DANDELIONS 

Jane  Street 

is  ever  gloomy  towards  evening, 
Horatio  and  Charles, 
Milligan  and  Gay : 

A  long,  spectral,  mysterious  man 

comes  with  his  wand 

and  touches  the  lamps  — 

this  one, 

that  one, 

the  next, 

the  next  — 

and  they  blossom ! 

Jane  Street 

smiles  and  is  cheery  at  dawn, 
Horatio  and  Charles, 
Milligan  and  Gay : 

The  man  comes  again  — 
and  this  one, 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

that  one, 
the  next, 
the  next  — 
blow  away! 

TESTAMENTS 

They  wait  under  the  same  sky  — 

along  the  same  level  — 

throughout  the  same  rain  — 

and  — 

honest  humans  crawl  to  both  — 

but  — 

there  is  a  difference 

wider  than  a  city  block 

between  the  House  of  Moses 

on  Second  Avenue 

and  the  Chapel  of  the  Immaculate  Virgin 

on  Third. 

MANUFACTURE 

The  great  house  is  black. 

Years  ago,  it  was  red  — 

made  of  red  bricks, 

made  by  red  men. 

The  city, 

a  dream  of  white  men  turned  to  soot, 

charcoaled  it  —  don't  blame  the  sun. 

Cut  into  the  huge  wall  — 

here,  there,  here,  there  — 

are  windows 


100  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

as  regular  as  shiny  playing  cards. 

Windows  are 

made  of  glass, 

and  as  glass  is  transparent, 

the  mere  effort  of  a  glance  may  see 

a  stiff,  perpetual, 

right,  left,  right,  left, 

up,  down,  up,  down, 

arms,  heads,  arms,  heads. 

Are  these,  jokers,  come  to  life?  — 

or  mannikins, 

made  to  jump  on  a  string  between  sticks 

by  the  mere  effort  of  squeezing,  relaxing? 

LANDOWNER 
(TO  B.  K.) 

Because  of  his  ownership 

of  a  portion  of  the  universe 

so  minute  that  not  even  Jehovah, 

in  his  most  omniscient  mood, 

could  locate  it; 

because  of  his  dominion 

for  a  duration  of  the  infinite 

so  infinitesimal  that  a 

breath  in,  breath  out 

on  the  part  of  The  Same 

divides  its  be  and  be-not; 

because  of  this  empire  of  his 

over  a  longitude  and  latitude 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  101 


scarce  the  size  or  the  strength 

of  a  pinchlet  of  dynamite  — 

that  blessed  microbe 

wears  a  silk  hat 

on  Sundays  — 

while  others,  less  blessed  than  he, 

dig  up  his  potatoes, 

dig  down  their  own  graves  — 

with  the  hope  that  their  Mondays 

may  grow  to  such  Sundays. 

ROMAN  HUNGER 
(TO  L.  R.) 

A  truer  harbinger 

of  the  dawn  of  a  day's  labors 

than  any  cock  crow, 

a  truer  signal 

for  the  start  of  a  race 

than  whip,  spur  or  pistol  — 

the  lady  of  the  mansion 

blows  her  nose 

with  a  free  and 

stentorian  magnificence  — 

a  forest  horn  call 

for  servants  and  maids 

to  come  scurrying 

from  bed-room  holes 

in  garrets  and  cellars  — 

a  solemn  command  for 


102  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

the  eggs  to  start  popping, 
the  bacon  to  sizzling, 
the  coffee  to  simmering  — 

for, 

be  it  known  that, 
on  this  particular  day 
(each  day  being  particular), 
the  lady  suffers 
an  unusually  cosmic  appetite  — 

and, 

that  the  sound  may  shatter 
unruly  silence  and  penetrate  walls, 
she  employs  no  kerchief, 
but  seizes  her  bedsheet  — 
in  which  be  it  known 
to  ears  that  stay  skeptical, 

though 

the  thunder  seizes 
black  clouds  to 
blow  his  nose, 
the  crash  is  less 
terrifying  to  trees 
than  the  call  to 
her  slaves  when 
their  lady  blows  hers. 

HEREDITY 

The  old  man 

in  the  drawing-room  oil 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  103 

invented  the  harrow, 
or  the  rake, 
or  the  hoe, 
or  something. 
I  didn't  learn 
whether  she    * 
is  his  daughter, 
or  granddaughter, 
his  niece,  grandniece, 
or  what. 

But  after  seeing 

the  blue  and  white  awning 

playing  tunnel  from  the  curb  to  her  front  door, 

and  that  furniture, 

those  rugs, 

those  paintings, 

that  statuary, 

the  marble  cupids  in  the  gardens, 

and  then  the  puppets  who  compose  her  society  — 

I  longed 

that  some  other 

had  invented  the  harrow, 

or  the  rake, 

or  the  hoe, 

or  something  — 

or  that  the  high  forehead 

in  the  drawing-room  oil 

had  been  a  mere  huckster 


104  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

of  shoe  laces, 
or  rhubarb, 
or  whisk  brooms, 
or  something. 

THAT  is 

If  I  weren't  what  I  am  — 

if  I  hadn't  been  born  what  I  was  — 

I  wouldn't  be  what  I  am  — 

that  is  — 

I'd  have  a  decent  job  down-town  — 
with  a  stipend  of  respectable  proportions  — 
I'd  have  a  Sunday  suit  as  well  as  a  week-day  — 
I  wouldn't  be  looking  so  shabby  — 
and  my  wife  wouldn't  eye  me  so  — 
I  feel  like  a  roach  when  she  eyes  me  so  — 

that  is  — 

if  she  weren't  what  she  is  — 
if  she  hadn't  been  born  what  she  was  — 
she  wouldn't  be  what  she  is  — 

she  wouldn't  have  a  Sunday  as  well  as  a  week-day  — 
and  I  wouldn't  eye  her  so  — 
she  turns  like  a  thief  when  I  eye  her  so  — 

that  is  — 

if  my  mother  and  father  had 
had    more   discrimination   in   their   choice    of   each 

other  — 
if  her  mother  and  father  had 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  105 

had  more  discrimination  in  their  choice  of  each 
other  — 

no,  that  is  — 

if  Nature  had  had  more  discrimination  with 
my  mother  and  father  and  her  mother  and  father  — 
she  wouldn't  have  asked  me  to  go  to  the  Browns  — 

to-day  being  Sunday  — 
or  I'd  surely  have  gone  to  the  Browns  — 

to-day  being  Sunday  — 
and  I  with  a  Sunday  suit  — 
I  with  a  decent  job  down-town  — 
I  with  a  respectable  stipend  — 

yes,  that  is  — 

I  wouldn't  be  sitting  here  — 
and  she  wouldn't  be  sitting  there  — 
she  telling  the  Browns  about  it  — 
and  I  reading  Darwin  — 
what  can  he  tell  me  about  it  ? 

DEREGLE 

In  my  mind, 

such  as  it  is, 

bassoons  hobnob  with  pelicans. 

The  explanation  is, 

since  there  must  be  an  explanation, 

or  a  truth  has,  of  course,  no  reason  for  being, 

or  idea,  still  less,  no  right  to  be  sounded  — 

the  explanation  is  not 


106  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

in  the  interest  for  the  contrasting  facts, 

bassoons,  very  tall,  very  thin,  very  black, 

pelicans,  very  short,  very  stout,  very  white, 

any  more  than  one's  predilection  for 

Voltaire,  very  tall,  very  thin, 

Rabelais,  very  short,  very  stout, 

is  interest  for  the  contrasting  facts  — 

but  the  explanation  is,  if  it's  this,  that 

there's  kinship  with  the  exaggeration  of 

bassoons  and  Voltaire  high  up, 

who  see  and  who  sing  life  as  lower, 

and  pelicans  and  Rabelais  low  down, 

who  see  and  who  sing  life  as  higher, 

than  it  actually  is  if  you're  logical 

and  true  to  your  middleness  of  virtues  — 

and  the  explanation  is,  if  not  this,  that, 

since  in  my  mind, 

such  as  it  is, 

bassoons  hobnob  with  pelicans, 

the  deduction  must  be, 

in  lands  where  there  must  be  deductions, 

that  this  can  but  be  an  idea  of  some  sort, 

and  that  this  screed, 

such  as  it  is, 

is  an  examination  not 

into  them  so  much  as  it  is  into  me, 

which  is,  if  you  reason  in  rhyme, 

all  that  a  screed  can  be, 

is  it  not? 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  107 

32°    FAHRENHEIT 

To  the  really  humble 

progenitor  of  Doctor  Jurisprudence, 

or  even  the  mere  chaste  student 

of  his  miraculous  common  denominator, 

a  glimpse  of  the 

domestic  discipline  imposed, 

with  such  benign  artistry, 

by  her  ladyship, 

the  Unapproachable  Irreproachable, 

will  afford  proof, 

without  cost  of  emotion, 

of  the  favorite  aphorism, 

that  the  perfecting  of  the  microcosm 

is  a  closer  adumbration  of  the 

Medico's  sacred  behest  as  to  ethical  procedure 

than  the  quixotic,  out-of-doors 

pursuit  of  the  macrocosm; 

an  added  glimpse  of  the 

breakfast  repast-demeanor 

of  his  lordship, 

the  Subdued  Abducted, 

with  a  particular  notation 

of  how  his  once  hot  glances 

have  become  icicles  of  buttermilk, 

should  crystallize  wisdom, 

or  celibacy,  as  it  happens, 


108  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

and  therewith  leave  the  heart  frozen 
against  further  palpitation. 

ON  DIT 

It  starts  with  a  tongue 

hissing  into  an  ear, 

spreading  the  vacuous 

head  to  a  ball 

on  strings  of  a  neck 

legs   run  with  on  stilts 

through  streets  and  down  lanes, 

bumping  folk  in  their  stalls, 

pulling  eyes  out  of  sockets 

and  tongues  out  of  nests, 

eye-bloated,  tongue-bellowed 

head-balloons  tossing 

on  neck  strings  and  leg  stilts 

from  roofs  down  to  sidewalks, 

back  yards  to  front  stoops, 

some  tangled  in  wash  lines 

or  telegraph  wires, 

only  to  jerk  dangling  messages  there! 

Comes  a  sun-prick  of  light, 
or  a  moon-wave  of  sleep, 
heajds  burst  or  lie  limp 
like  fish  full  of  air 
or  rats  full  of  water 
in  carts  or  in  cellars! 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  109 


HELIOTROPE 

"  O,  ah,  ee.  .  .  . 
I  want  a  man  with  leopard's  eyes  and  the  neck  of 

a,  neck  of  a  swan, 
I   could  hang  him  to   the  hottest,   saddest  tree   in 

Hell, 
and  dance  to  the,  dance  to  the  tune  of  his  writhing 

legs! 

O,  ah,  ee.  .  .  . 
I'd  crawl  up  beside  him  though  the  bark  turn  to,  bark 

turn  to  thistles  and  thorns, 
and  strangle  me  with  his  wild,  wild  beard  till  my  dead 

body  be  his  dead  body,  and  his  dead  body  be,  his 

dead  body  be.  .  .  ." 

The  lady  wears  the  mildest  of  blue  eyes. 

Receives  every  Friday  at  five. 

Sips  tea  as  you  or  I  sip  tea.  .  .  . 

But  her  cheek  bones  are  high, 

after  the  Polish  fashion, 

and  of  late, 

she  has  been  reading 

Przybyszewski, 

bound  in  heliotrope. 

WEDLOCK 

It  can  never  be 
Angela, 


110  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

though  hers 
is  a  body 

for  whose  possession 
one  would  barter  one's 
inheritance  of  Heaven. 
Of  understanding 
she  is  as  free 
as  a  mule. 

It  can  never  be 

Allura. 

Her  soul  shines 

like  an  owl's  eye  at  night, 

and  she  plays  Ravel 

as  one  loves  to  hear  Ravel. 

But  she  is  flat-breasted 

and  powders  her  nose. 

One  should  wed 
solitude. 


ROOMS 

The  rooms  you  leave 

seem  more  sorrowful  than  faces ; 

they  eye  you  like  animals. 

Their  dumb  service  is  past; 
they  have  no  legs  to  follow  you, 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  111 

If  their  courage  had  a  tongue, 

it  would  have  said,  go; 

they  have  no  ears  for  what  you  say.  .  .  . 

Monday, 

they  will  give  what  they  gave  you 

to  an  Italian  woman  with  eight  children. 

CARBON-DIOXIDE 

Oh  master  Americans, 
so  supreme  over  this  and  all  ages 
in  lawfully  bridging  the  chasm 
between  any  two  sums  with  the  process, 
indigenous  and  doubly  divine, 

of  addition,  subtraction,  multiplication,  division  — 
I  ask  you,  how  is  it, 
that  the  tiddle-diddle-doo 
breathed  into  yonder  flute 
by  the  trained  carbon-dioxide 
of  yonder  wandering  tatterdemalion  — 
how  is  it  that, 

whereas  you  sanction  the  barter  of 
hens  for  gold,  pigs  for  gold,  ducks  for  gold, 
by  tossing  your  clinkety-clink 

to    the    merest    squawk-squawk,    oint-oint,    quack- 
quack  — 

that  this  tiddle-diddle-doo, 
while  it  doesn't  say  in  words 
audible  to  the  ear  or  legible  to  the  eye  — 


112  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

"  will  you  drop  me  a  penny  for  beauty  ?  " — 

how  is  it,  I  say, 

that  that  huckster  of  the  flute, 

who  needs  but  an  addition  of  oxygen 

equal  to  a  subtraction  of  carbon-dioxide, 

lest  he  fall  and  beauty  fall  with  him, 

is  thin  as  a  worm  and  white  as  a  shell?  — 

have  you  no  process  for  pleasure, 

or  is  pleasure  unlawful  among  you? 

17  +  4X3  —  0 

That  superannuated, 

moral  supernumerary 

of  worldly  well-being 

Man  has  surnamed,  Conscience, 

is  miraculously  free  from  acrimonious  shoots 

in  the  breast  of  our  American  Citizen  —  for  — 

when  one  has  a  female  helpmeet, 

with  seventeen  graces,  become 

a  slave  of  docility,  become 

a  mummied  puppet  which  bobs  to  us, 

its  mantelpiece  Buddha, 

for  each  nod  we  vouchsafe  or  glance  awry, 

which  knows  what  dishes,  what  cutlery,  what  napery 

should  adorn  the  pabulum  board, 

and  what  proportion  of  calories  and  carbohydrates 

the  respective  hours  of  eight,  noon  and  six 

should  proffer  for  the  god's  health  and  propitiation, 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  113 

which  knows  how  near  the  moon  his  pillow  should 
rise, 

what  wink  of  the  morning  to  whisper, 

"Cuckoo!"— and  — 

when  one  has  a  mission  domicile 

snuggling  three  more  dormitories 

than  his  Neighbor  Citizen's  bungalow, 

plus  three  more  Persian  rugs, 

plus  three  more  Morris  chairs, 

plus  three  more  sculptures  cut  in  marble,  not  in 
clay  —  and  — 

when  one  has  thus  built  and  prevailed 

through  one's  genius 

in  the  addition,  subtraction,  multiplication  and  di- 
vision 

of  the  numerals  of  Arabia 

as  applied  to  the  bartering  of  corn  in  Nebraska  — 
and  — 

when  one  has  done  all  this  and  all  that 

under  the  motherly  approbation 

of  that  old  dowager  and  monitress 

over  the  good  and  evil  conduct  of 

hens,  caterpillars,   crocodiles,  giraffes,  brook-trout, 

sea-urchins,  pebbles,  nasturtiums  and  weeping  wil- 
lows, 

Man  in  his  discriminate  affection  has  surnamed, 
Law  — 

who  is  there  in  our  New  England,  Middle  West  or 
California, 


114  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

who  dares  even  dream  disapprobation 

when  our  American  Citizen 

remarks  from  the  depths  of  his  ease, 

to  his  Neighbor  Citizen 

in  the  throes  of  his  envy  —  "  yes  — 

it's  a  fine  day  — 

trading  was  excellent  — 

my  wife's  well  — 

the  verandah's  newly  painted  — 

we're  both  fond  of  blue  — 

the  latest?  we're  calling  him  Archibald 

each  man  to  his  duty  — 

I'm  not  looking  for  credit  —  yes  — 

I'm  voting  the  Republican  ticket ! " 

SUCH    ANI>    SUCH 

It  is  very  easy 

for  a  dead  emotion 

to  be  very  wise: 

it  is  very  easy 

for  a  dead  emotion 

to  prognosticate, 

if  such  and  such  begin 

between  such  and  such, 

such  and  such  eventuates, 

perforce  beyond  further  peradventure 

ergo,  you  must  not  love. 

It  must  be  very  nice 

to  feel  nothing,  know  everything, 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  115 


and  be  able  to  sit 

the  chair  of  philosophy, 

or  is  it  anthropology, 

or  is  it  psycho-analysis, 

in  an  American  university: 

I  should  like  so  much 

to  be  able  to  say, 

perforce  beyond  further  peradventures 

ergo,  you  must  not  live. 

But  it  is  very  hard 

for  a  such  and  such 

to  be  very  wise. 

FIFTH    AVENUE 

I  sat  on  the  front  seat 

of  a  Fifth  Avenue  bus  — 
an  event  —  not  significant  : 
I  sat  on  the  front  seat, 

thinking,  reflecting,  meditating  — 
on  my  importance  to  the  world, 

or  —  importance  to  myself?  — 
an  inquiry  —  not  significant  — 

but  significant  to  me, 
as  I  sat  on  that  front  seat, 

reflecting  back, 

meditating  forward  — 

thinking  about 
the   significance   of   the   sale 

of  a  poem  I  had  sold, 


116  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

for  five  green  leaves, 

to  an  editor  — 
and  which  I  would  see 

in  his  paper  to-morrow  — 
and  which  his  public 

would  see  and  might  read  — 

million  people,  two  million  — 
and  three  or  four  of  them, 

blessed  with  vision, 
might  hail  and  remember,  as  significant  — 

and  me  as  important, 

not  self-important: 
and  I  sat,  meditating  forward, 

toward  a  later  sun-day, 

when  I  —  yellow  leaves  richer  —  why  not  ?  — 
might  be   sitting  —  why  not  ?  — 

on  the  front  seat 

of  a  runabout, 

or  an  automobile, 

or  a  limousine  — 
recognized  —  pointed   out  —  universally   cheered 

by  this  world  of  twin  sidewalks  — 
instead  of  unrecognized  —  ignored  —  alone  — 

on  the  top  of  a  bus, 
my  thinking,  reflecting,  meditating 

bowing  low  —  very  low 
to  hoping,  speculating,  imagining.  .  .  . 

when  of  a  sudden  — 
with  a  clatter  before  and  a  clatter  behind  — 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  117 

with  a  screaming  before  and  a  screeching  behind  — 
with  universal  vociferation  fore  and  aft  — 
with   a  fellow  in   a  silk  hat, 

higher  than  Pike's  Peak  - — 

on  the  back  seat !  — 
a  U-S-boat  chasing  a  U-boat?  — 
whizzed   by  —  shot    by  —  vanished  — 
seen  —  not  seen  —  heard  —  not  heard ! 
He  wasn't  I  —  in  fancy  there  — 

self-important  grown  important ! 
He  wasn't  I  —  in  reincarnation  of 

somebody  like  Homer's  ghost  — 

somebody   like    Shakespeare's  — 

somebody  like  Whitman's! 
He  was  in  reality  —  in  the  bone  and  flesh  — 

somebody  like  Wilson! 
He  was   indeed  —  Woodrow  Wilson! 

This  ...  is  to-morrow.  .  .  . 

I'm  still  .  .  .  alive.  .  *  . 

but  no  longer  .  .  .  dreaming.  .  .  . 

PROPAGANDA 

Under  one  arm, 

she  carried  a  dog, 

dog-docile  dog, 
under  the  other, 

she   squeezed   a  cat, 

cat-squirming  cat; 
top  of  her  hat, 


118  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

she'd  tied  a  cage, 

cage  for  a  squirrel, 

squirrel-chat  squirrel; 
top  of  her  back, 

a  bundle, 

enormous  enough 

to  take  in  a  household; 
behind  her, 
in  front, 

on  both  sidewalks, 
in  the  gutter, 
and  even  from  windows 
and  veritable  housetops, 

something  like  a  million  folk, 

so  it  seemed,  crowded, 

thinking  jostling  absurdities, 

grinning  grotesque  good-fellowship, 

nudging  strange  ribs  with  strange  elbows ; 
and  methought: 

Ludicrous  creature, 

you  do  more, 

unconsciously, 

towards  cementing  folk, 

out  in  the  open, 
than  a  congress  of 

self-conscious, 

senatorial, 

ambassadorial, 

regal  and 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  119 


presidential 
orations, 

concerning  leagues  and  the  like  — 
behind  closed  doors. 


CHESS  PLAYERS 

Chess  players  live  in  old  damp  basements, 

fifty  or  a  hundred  to  the  basement: 

old  damp  basements  are  chess  players'  homes, 

fifty  or  a  hundred  to  the  home. 

They    play    there,    eat    there,    smoke    there,    sleep 

there  — 

don't  sleep  on  divans,  settees,  ottomans  — 
sleep  on  the  tables,  or  just  underneath, 
or  half  the  body  on  a  chair,  the  other  on  the  floor. 
(If  you  fancy  me  a  raconteur, 
try  Grand  Street  off  the  Bowery !) 

Never  a  proprietor  of  old  chess  dungeons 

shoos  away  a  neophyte  of  Cai'ssa's : 

lodging-house  etiquette  is  fully  deserved 

by  a  masonry  as  venerable  as  Job's. 

Or  set  aside  Cai'ssa,  patron  saint  of  chess, 

and  analyze  the  problem  with  your  New  York  eye: 

first  of  all,  these  denizens  have  no  other  home; 

secondly,   they're  stolid  and  so   dead  a  weight   at 

night, 
one  and  two  and  three  o'clock  A.  M.  the  time  they're 

through, 

120 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  121 

he'd  need  a  dozen  wheelbarrows  to  cart  them  away; 
and  where  should  he  dump  them  ?  —  down  an  alley 

or  a  sewer?  — 

devotees  are  lost  if  they  ever  touch  the  world; 
he'd  grow  a  silly  bankrupt  if  he  even  aired  them  out ; 
last  of  all,  they're  old,  older  than  patriarchs, 
older  than  the  bible  and  as  old  as  Israel; 
turn  them  out   of  doors,   he'd   be   turning  out   his 

race; 
a  gentile  "  goy  "  might  do  it,  but  you'll  never  see 

a  Jew! 

(If  you  care  to  test  a  creed, 
try  Grand  Street  off  the  Bowery!) 

Chess  players  squeeze  out  a  mite  of  livelihood, 
squeeze  each  other  for  the  stake,  a  nickel  a  game: 
twelve    or   thirteen   hours    buy    one's    coffee,    one's 

doughnuts ; 
satiety  this  against  the  hunger  chessdom  breeds: 

but- 

you've  got  to  be  adroit  enough  and  shrewd  enough; 
scholarship  won't  do;  you  must  have  imagination; 
and  then  you'll  need  the  third  and  hardest,  only 

age  can  forge, 
courage  to  make  the  move  you've   felt  your  brain 

conceive : 
but  — 
if  you  haven't   got   the  brain  to  beat  him,   do   it 

with  your  tongue; 


122  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

scare  him  from  the  winning  coup,  sneak  his  thought 

elsewhere : 

call  him  "  potzer,"  "  nebich,"  "  kibitz  "; 
if  that  trio  don't  confound  him, 
sneer  him  "  goy  " ;  the  weird  vernacular 
has  always  this  to  addle  Jews: 

but- 
if  you  haven't  got  the  tongue  to  thwart  him,  do 

it  with  your  beard ; 
unless  your  beard  is  long  enough  though,  wait  until 

it  grows ; 
then  let  it  wave  across  the  field  like  a  willow  in  the 

wind, 
then  hover  near  a  corner  like  a  broom  that's  done 

its  day; 
and  when  he  blares  "  schachmatt "  at  you,  you  raise 

the  elfin  growth, 
disclose   a    rook   he   couldn't    see   which   makes    off 

with  his  queen, 
and  twists  the  mate  against  him  like  a  dagger  in 

the  dark ! 

(You  sneer  me,  historian?  — 
try  Grand  Street  off  the  Bowery!) 

Chess  players  vie  in  old  damp  basements, 

till  some  of  them  have  nickels  and  some  of  them 

have  none: 
as  long  as  some  are  still  alive  and  only  some  are 

dead, 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  123 

old  damp  basements  are  chess  players*  homes. 
When  chess  players  die,  they  lay  down  their  kings, 
do  it  with  a  noble  touch,  if  they've  learned  the  game 

at  all: 

for  "a  move's  a  move,  you  can  never  retract," 
the  mystic  law  from  first  to  last,  beginner  up  to 

peer ! 
Consider   cross-eyed    Spielmann   who    resigned    two 

dawns  ago; 
Spielmann    knew    Caissa's    word;    he'd    played    her 

eighty  years: 

played  her  as  a  boy  when  he  won  from  Lilienkron, 
played  her  at  the  close  when  he  lost  to  Lilienthal; 
played  her  through  the  way  between  from 
Rosenzweig  to  Ziegenschwarz,  Kalinski  to  Rabino- 

witz; 
and  more  than  played  her  on  that  crag,  the  night 

he  beat  lame  Steinitz, 

little  squatty  champion  for  five  and  twenty  years, 
Goliath  of  chessdom,  till  David  Lasker  brought  him 

down! 
It     may     have    been     an     accident,     Goliath     fast 

asleep 
from  defeating  all  the  masters  and  the  tyros  of  this 

world  — 
but    "  Spielmann    once    beat    Steinitz ! "    was    the 

epitaph  that  dawn 
as  they  stretched  him  on  two  tables  for  the  first 

move  to  the  grave: 


124  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

"  a    doddering    duffer    like    Lilienthal    beat    Spiel- 

mann? — 

Cai'ssa,  our  Caissa,  it  was  who  queened  that  pawn ! " 
They  dug  their  clinking  nickels   out  of  vests   and 

up  from  trousers 
to  dig  a  checkered  plot  for  Spielmann  who  beat 

Steinitz! 

(No  Potter's  Field  takes  king  or  pawn 
from  Grand  Street  off  the  Bowery  f) 


MISS  SAL'S  MONOLOGUE 

To  Mr.  Bert  Williams,  the  Mastersinger  of 
Vaudeville 

Come,  get  up,  Sal, 

peel  off  another, 

peel  still  another  day 

off  the  calendar  — 
come,  get  along, 

peel  them  for  noon-time  — 

potatoes  — 

peel  them  for  night-time  — 

potatoes  — 

some  folk  like  them  for  breakfast, 

peel  some  for  breakfast  — 

potatoes  — 

slip  your  knife  between  their 

skin  and  flesh 

and  mind,  don't  go  slipping  it 

between  your  own  — 

potatoes  — 
if  Mr.  Columbus  hadn't  been  what  he  was, 

had  he  been  what  you  are,  Sal, 

he'd  never  have  felt  the  world  round, 

he'd  have  felt  it  a 

125 


126  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

potato  — 

crooked  and  wrinkled, 

never  the  same  shape  twice, 

no  shape  at  all, 

full  of  bumps  and  crevices, 

warts  like  mountain  peaks  — 

no  place  for  a  man  in  his  senses 

to  go  crawling,  exploring  — 

he'd  have  seen  it  what  it  is,  a 

potato, 

and  another, 

and  then  another, 

and  then  still  another  — 

and  he'd  have  stayed  at  home  like  you, 

peeling, 

peeling  potatoes, 

a  potato  peeling  potatoes  — 
go,  peel  them  off  your  back, 

off  your  arms, 

off  your  hips, 

off  your  legs, 

off  your  feet  — 

clothes  — 

clothes  — 
when  you  call  me  in  the  morning,  Mr.  Rooster, 

don't  call  me  Sal  any  more, 

I  don't  know  that  name  any  more, 

I  don't  answer  to  it  any  more, 

somebody  else  whose  name  is  Sal, 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  127 

let  her  answer  to  it,  mine  isn't  Sal  — 

if  you've  got  to  get  me  up  again,  you  call  out, 

Potato  — 
go,  peel  them  off  the  bed, 

quilt, 

counterpane, 

sheet, 

and  get  under  and  dream  — 

yes,  be  fooled  a  little  more  — 

yes,  I  know  you,  Mr.  Bed  — 

you're  a  nice  soft  fellow  to  lie  with  — 

you  and  your  spooky  talk, 

telling  me  your  yarns 

fit  to  turn  a  nigger  white  — 

about  potato  goblins 

coming  and  going  on  match-sticks  for  legs, 

they  doing  the  cake-walk, 

me  playing  the  tune  — 

"  peel,  Honey,  I'm  peeling  off  my  heart  for  you, 

so  peel  away  your  heart  for  me,  do !  " — 
I  told  you,  Mr.  Rooster,  never  to  call  me  again  — 

told  you  my  name  is  Potato  — 

told  you  not  to  call  out  Sal  any  more  — 

told    you    to    get    up    someone    else    by    that 

name  — 
come,  get  up,  Potato  — 

yes,  that's  me  — 

peel  open  your  eyes  — 

yes,  I'll  peel  — 


128  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

come,  peel  off  another, 

still  another  to-day  — 

Mr.  To-day,  yes,  I  know  — 

don't  have  to  tell  me  about  you, 

I  know  you,  Man  — 

and  yesterday, 

and  day  before  yesterday, 

and  day  before  day  before  yesterday, 

and  to-morrow, 

and  day  after  to-morrow, 

and  day  after  day  after  to-morrow  — 

your  whole  family,  Mr.  Man, 

the  whole  of  old  Mr.  Noah's  ark  of  you 

to-days  — 
and  day  after  day  after  day  after  to-morrow, 

when  I  die  — 

I  know  that  too  — 

laid  out,  a  skinned  potato  in  a  tub  — 

it  being  my  to-day  — 

you  can't  tell  me, 

I  know  that  they'll  peel  off  some  earth, 

and  stick  me  under, 

and  that'll  be  an  end  to  peeling  — 

I  know  that  too  —  v 

yes  — 

no  —  no  — 
not  if  the  wind  use  the  rain, 

Mr.  Wind  use  Mr.  Rain 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  129 


for  still  another  knife 

to  come  peeling  some  more  — 

oh  Mr.  Lord  — 

oh  good  Mr.  Lord  — 

peel  open  your  eye  — 

peel  Mr.  Cloud  off  Mr.  Sun 

before  Mr.  Wind  bring  Mr.  Rain 

to  come  peeling  me  from  under 

the  skin  of  Mr.  Sod  — 

oh  dear  Mr.  Lord  — 

if  they  do,  Mr.  Lord  — 

if  they've  got  to,  Mr.  Lord  — 

if  they've  got  to  get  me  up, 

it  being  my  to-day  — 

and  you've  got  to  call  me, 

me  that's  used  to  being  called  — 

don't  call  out,  Sal, 

just  call  out,  Potato  — 

whisper  Mr.  Gabriel  to  whisper, 

Potato  — 

or  I  simply  can't  promise 
nobody, 
no-day, 
no-how  — 

to  peel  the  worms  off  my  body, 
and  the  body  off  my  soul ! 


CROWNS  AND  CRONIES 

VISION 

You  have  yet  to  attain 

contemplation  of  a  person 

without  intervention  of  your  own  — 
and  so, 

you  have  not  beheld  your  own. 

You  hold  the  glass, 

face  to  you,  back  to  him  — 
not  having  felt 

the  earth  hold  its  sea 

sky-ward, 

the  sky  hold  its  sun 

earthward. 

It  needs 

but  a  twist  of  reflection 

to  bring  recognition  around  — 
but  that  needs 

the  titan-wrist 

pulse  of  the  earthquake 

and  pulse  of  the  meteor 
of  heredity 
and  humility, 

130 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  131 


whose  child  is 
self-annihilation. 


CRONIES 
You  there, 
with  a  quill  in  space, 
stroke  against  time, 
scratch  on  the  ball, 

one-two-three : 
the  ball  revolves,  yes, 
around  another,  yes, 

and  you  then, 
quill,  stroke,  scratch, 

one-two-three, 
vanish,  yes, 
no  space,  no  time, 
no  ball,  no  you,  no: 
except  in 
me  here, 

with  a  quill  in  space, 
stroke  against  time, 
scratch  on  the  ball, 
one-two-three, 
so! 

INDOORS 

On  a  day  like  this, 
when  nobody  dresses  his  outdoor  best, 


132  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

except  some  fop  with  a  lady  to  woo 

(this  time  with  wheedling  of  satin), 

when  the  bickering  rain 

is  satin  enough 

for  the  sky  to  come  wooing  the  earth 

(last  time  with  streamers  of  sun-down)  : 

on  a  day  so  dull, 

it  is  best  for  a  man 

(this  time  with  nothing  to  win,  be  the  mood) 

to  resign  the  game 

to  dandies  and  skies 

and,  sans  advancement 

of  earth's  way  or  woman's, 

to  go  to  the  nook 

of  some  rhymester's  book  — 

providing  his  noise  isn't  tiresome,  too, 

wooing  Dame  Art  with  demode  wiles. 


TO    THE    OTHEES 


On,   crusaders! 
Whither? 
Nowhere ! 
The  past? 
Sneers ! 
Present  ? 
Snarls ! 
Future? 
Snubs  I 
Fodder? 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  133 


Cocoanuts ! 

Where? 

In  trees! 

How? 

At  your  heads ! 

Do? 

You! 

On,  crusaders! 

TO  w.  c.  w.  M.  D. 

There  has  been 

another  death. 

This  time, 

I  bring  it  to  you. 

You  are  kind, 

brutal, 

you  know 

how  to  lower 

bodies. 

I  ask  only 

that  the  rope 

isn't  silk, 

(silk  doesn't  break) 

nor  thread, 

(thread  does.) 

If  it  lifts 

and  lowers 

common  things, 

it  will  do. 


134.  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

TO    A    SMALL    SCULPTOR 

Thought 

being 

in,  not  out  - — 

your  eyes 

look 

in,  not  out  — 

(they  do, 

that's  what  scares  me!) 

and  though 

your 

body  is  small, 

the  thought  it  holds 

is  bigger  than  the  moon  — 

(it  is, 

that  scares  me  more!) 

now,  if  you 

could  look 

out,  not  in  — 

and  could  get 

me 

into  your  eyes, 

into  your  thought  — 

(I'm  small, 

though  my 

hope  is  bigger  than  the  moon!) 

and  could 

get  that 

thought  into 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  135 

your  fingers, 

and  your  fingers 

in  and  out, 

around  and  over  the  clay  — 

I'd 

sit  for  you  always  — 

(no,  if 

that  could  be  — 

that'd  scare  me  mast !) 

I  think  I'll  run  away! 

GREEK    OR    PERHAPS    ROMAN    EPIGRAM 

Cynthia 

worked  along  the  principle 

of  the  annihilation  of  all 

which  doesn't  contribute  to  the  one-self, 

the  principle  of  hatred, 

a  biological  principle; 

Cleon, 

along  the  principle 

of  the  accumulation  of  all 

which   can  possibly   contribute   to   the   all-self, 

the  principle  of  love, 

a  biological  principle; 

(the  second 

might  be  written  first) 

so  the  gods, 

who  work  along  the  principle 

of  the  annihilation  of  the  all-but-one 


136  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

and  the  accumulation  of  the  all-for-one, 

the  principle  of  life, 

the  biological  principle, 

the  gods  parted  them; 

(the  third,  too, 

might  be  written  first) 

especially 

if  you  are  a 

Cynthia  and  Cleon 

plus  a  penchant 

for  writing 

Greek  or  perhaps 

Roman  epigrams 

out  of  the  sorrows 

due  to  the  arrows  of 

Juno  and  Jove  — 

or  Jove  and  Juno  — 

whichever  it  is. 

SCREEN  DANCE:     FOB,  EIHANI 

Its  posterior  pushing 

its  long  thin  body, 

a  procession  of  waves  lifting  its  head  — 

a  green  caterpillar: 

Its  roots  digging  and  drinking, 
the  sap  driving  outward  and  up, 
shaking  its  yellow  head  — 
the  mountain  top  of  a  tree: 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  137 

Idling  along  in  the  blue, 

an  easy  white  holiday, 

swimming  away  towards  the  rim  of  the  bowl  — 

a  cloud: 

Dipping  and  twirling, 

soaring,  floating,  following  after  — 

a  butterfly. 

TO   WHITMAN 

Monster ! 

You  would  take  me, 

tiny  me, 

in  your  huge  paws 

and  scrunch  me? 

Child! 

I  can  take  you, 

tiny  you, 

between  my  thumbs 

and  love  you. 

Come  on ! 

RED    CHANT 

There  are  veins  in  my  body,  Fenton  Johnson  — 
veins  that  sway  and  dance  because  of  blood  that  is 

red; 

there  are  veins  in  your  body,  Fenton  Johnson  — 
veins  that  sway  and  dance  because  of  blood  that  is 

red. 
Let  a  master  prick  me  with  his  pin  — 


138  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

the  bubble  of  blood  shows  red; 
Let  a  master  prick  you  with  his  pin  — 
the  bubble  of  blood  shows  red. 
Let  a  woman  love  me, 
let  a  woman  love  you  — 
the  blood  that  rises  is  red. 
Let  my  gray  eye  turn  to  yours, 
let  your  brown  eye  turn  to  mine  — 
the  blood  behind  them  is  red. 
Let  my  skin  wrinkle  to  a  grin, 
let  your  skin  wrinkle  to  a  grin  — 
red  blood  inspired  the  wrinkles. 
Let  me  think  of  a  spirit, 
let  you  think  of  a  spirit  — 
the  bodies  that  nourished  the  thought  are  red. 
Let  me  think  of  loving  you, 
let  you  think  of  loving  me  — 
the  hearts  that  nourished  the  thought  are  red. 
Let  me  say  it  as  well  —  why  shouldn't  I  ?  — 
let  you  say  it  as  well  —  why  shouldn't  you?  — 
the  tongues  that  say  it  are  red. 
Let  me  sing  you  a  song  —  is  it  foolish  ?  — 
let  you  sing  me  a  song  —  is  it  foolish?  — 
songs  and  singers  are  red. 
Let  us  go  arm  in  arm  down  State  Street  — 
let  them  cry,  the  easily  horrified: 
"  Gods  of  our  fathers, 

look   at   the  white  man  chumming  with   the  black 
man!" 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  139 

Let  us  nudge  each  other,  you  and  I  — 
without  humility,  without  defiance: 
"  We  are  red,"  let  us  answer ! 

THE    NOBILITY 

Behind  blinking  lids  of  banter, 

playing  at  butterfly, 

profundity  digs  his  cave. 

Careless  of  her  weak  yellow  gums, 

sorrow  smiles  like  a  toad, 

then  snarls  an  insipid  ditty. 

Not  unruefully, 

the  aged  night  trees  raise  their  petticoats ; 

their  skinny  white  knees  protrude 

and  flirt  with  the  fireflies. 

The  earth  snores  in  his  sleep 

as  the  worms,  squirming  his  brain, 

weave  a  nightmare  of  glee. 

For  a  noble  breath  or  two, 

scorn  is  god.  .  .  . 

The  river  plays  on,  on  his  flute. 

The  stupid  mountains  shrug  their  shoulders. 

The  elephant  moon  goes,  wagging  his  head. 

SELF-ESTEEM 

I  know  a  man 

who  takes  his  art 

as  he  takes  his  coffee  —         • 


140  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

with  a  complacent  lumpling  of  sugar. 

He  studies  her 

as  he  does  his  neighbors  — 

with  more  or  less  equal  emotion. 

He  doesn't  grovel  to  her ; 

nor  does  he  fall  to  snivel  worship. 

They  fence  with  watchful  wit 

and  then  put  arms  about  each  other; 

gravely,  impersonally. 

I  esteem  this  man  beyond  all  others. 

POETRY 

Ladislaw  the  critic 

is  five  feet  six  inches  high, 

which  means 

that  his  eyes 

are  five  feet  two  inches 

from  the  ground, 

which  means, 

if  you  read  him  your  poem, 

and  his  eyes  lift  to  five  feet 

and  a  trifle  more  than  two  inches, 

what  you  have  done 

is  Poetry  — 

should  his  eyes  remain 

at  five  feet  two  inches, 

you  have  perpetrated  prose, 

and  do  his  eyes  stoop 

—  which  heaven  forbid !  — 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  141 


the  least  trifle  below 

five  feet  two  inches, 

you 

are  an  unspeakable  adjective. 

PATRIOT 

This  man  bleeds 

for  a  tune 

the  lightest  wind 

can  destroy  from  mortal  ken. 

Out  of  himself, 

he  has  cut  a  reed  — 

and  into  it, 

he  breathes  rhythms. 

What  makes  him  blow, 

on  a  day  when  the  clarion  rules, 

is  an  imaginary  nation, 

with  one  creed, 

and  one  language, 

and  a  ghost  for  queen, 

who  pins  him  no  praise  when  he  dies 

breathing  rhythm  to  the  last. 


1914 

PASTS 

Science 

drove  his  plough, 

so  straight, 

so  strong, 

so  true, 

deep  and  far 

into  the  past 

and  turned  it  topsy-turvy. 

Now, 

we  are  frantically  busy, 

with  all  of  our  many  hands, 

sowing  the  next  past. 

CHRISTIANITY 

When  men 

stand  men 

against  trees 

to  be  shot 

:  why  don't  they  lift  their  arms  out : 
:  parallel  with  the  earth  and  the  sky 

are  traitors 

and  deserters 

to  a  lesser 

142 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  143 

love  to  be 
deprived  of 
this  simple 
final  comfort 
by  traitors 
and  deserters 
to  a  greater? 

YOU  THERE! 

Hey  there,  you  there, 

you  of  the  skulking,  round-shouldered  eyes : 

Twist  your  eyes  over  here  — 

give  them  a  slap  on  the  back  so  they  turn  — 

a  jab  in  the  ribs  so  they  straighten  — 

eh  ?  no,  don't  put  them  in  uniforms  — 

this  isn't  a  matter  of  dress-parade, 

of  volunteers,  conscription, 

but  a  matter  of  undress-parade, 

the  moment  for  saluting  the  nude ! 

Ah  there  —  I  knew  you  could  do  it  —  now : 

open  the  lips  of  your  eyes  — 

breathe  the  truth  of  your  heart 

just  once  through  your  eyes  — 

the  truth  in  you,  you  have  truth  in  you, 

the  truth  you  breathe  from  one  breath  to  another  — 

breathe  it  forth  from  the  crypt  of  you 

out  through  the  mouth  of  your  eyes  — 

open  them  wider,  wider,  let  the  horizon  hear ! 

You  dread  your  truth?  — 


144  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

then  fling  it  out,  kick  it  out  — 

one  can't  soil  the  seat  of  the  pants  of  a  truth  — 

give  it  a  full-legged,  bouncing  kick  — 

or,  as  well  if  you  must,  breathe  it  out, 

carefully,     fastidiously,      shameful     phrase     after 

phrase  — 

breathe  the  truth  of  your  heart 
just  once  through  your  eyes ! 
Oh  yes,  I  know  — 

we'll  treat  you  like  a  poaching  nigger  — 
burn  you  the  way  they  did  Joan  of  Arc  — 
poke  your  carcass  with  the  boot  of  a  lie 
stronger  than  any  truth  of  the  ages  — 
and  mouth  frothing  spit  for  your  epitaph ! 
Eyes  —  shoulder  arms  —  ready  —  take  aim  — 
shoot  us  your  truth  just  once  from  your  depths : 
shoot  us  the  name  of  your  country ! 
Eh?     No!     Humanity? 
Corporal! 

Line  up  your  firing  squad! 
That  straight-bodied  soul  is  a  traitor! 
Hellow  there,  you  there  — 
and  Christ'll  mouth  open  your  eyes  with  a  kiss ! 

THE    NEXT    DEINK 

It's  a  marvelous  age  that  we  live  in ! 

(It  is,  sir!) 

In  Greece,  they  fought  with  mere  javelins  and  spears ! 

(Child's  play!) 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  145 

In  later  times  —  well,  what  of  Bonaparte? 

(Waterloo?) 

And  the  poor  pretty  handful  who  fell? 

(Tin  soldiers!) 

When  you  think  of  the  motors  and  aeroplanes, 

(The  dreadnoughts!) 

and  the  millions  of  men  in  the  field  at  one  time, 

(Ten  million  dead!) 

and  the  seas  and  the  seas  of  bullets  and  blood  I 

(And  the  gold!) 

Yes,  the  twenty-two  millions  a  day  that  it  costs  ! 

(  Vanderbilt's  fortune!) 

Why,  we're  right  to  be  proud,  sir,  and  happy  and 


(That  we  are!) 

It's  our  duty,  we  should  be,  we  should  be  ! 

(We  should!) 

Come,  have  the  next  drink  on  me  ! 

CONJUGATION 

.  .  .  now,  let  you  listen  to  : 

killing  folk 

is  still  another  way  of 

killing  rats  — 

rats  dying  of  feeding  on  festering  wounds 

containing  poisoning  resulting  from  firing  — 

or  testing  the  sentence  according  to  grammar 

an  instructive  experiment  for  the  class  — 

if  I  err,  let  some  scholar  correct  me  — 


146  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

the  participle,  killing, 

is  derived  from  the  active  verb, 

infinitive,  to  kill, 

the  conjugation  of  which  is, 

kill,  killed,  killing,  killed  — 

kill,  the  action  of  somebody  firing, 

killed,  the  action  on  somebody  fired  upon, 

killing,  the  action  on  somebody  else  by  somebody 

fired  upon, 
killed,  the  action  on  somebody  else  by  somebody  fired 

upon  — 

kill  and  killing  standing  in  the  active  voice, 
killed  and  killed  in  the  passive : 
now,  let  me  hear  — 
since  the  theorem  of  it  duplicates 
the  theorem  of  the  verb,  to  kill  — 
I  expect  an  accurate  response  — 
let  me  hear  your  conjugation 
of  the  verb,  to  feed,  in  the  sentence, 
feeding  folk 
is  still  another  way  of 
feeding  rats  — 
or  rather,  if  you  prefer  it  — 
feeding  rats 
is  still  another  way  of 
feeding  folk  — 

the  order  of  action  is  immaterial  — 
the  conjugation,  in  either  case,  the  same  — 
now,  let  me  hear.  .  .  . 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  147 


EOCOCO    KINSMEN 

My  two  old  brothers  are  growing  older. 
Soon  they'll  be  hobbling  to  crutches  or  canes. 
My  two  blinking  brothers  are  well-nigh  blind. 
Soon  I'll  be  leading  them,  they  who  lead  me. 

The  heart,  he  says  wistfully : 

"  What  has  become  of  that  sprite, 

that  child  with  the  head  of  a  crocus, 

folk  used  to  call  with  a  short  pretty  name? 

You  recall  how  he  ran  to  them,  kicking  a  gigue?  " 
The  head,  he  answers  wistfully : 

"  I  no  longer  see  him,  brother. 

He  must  have  fallen  in  the  storm  last  night." 
Wistfully,  the  heart: 

"  Who  were  the  ones  that  buried  him  ? 

Were  they  kind,  can  you  say  ?  " 
Wistfully,  the  head: 

"  I  do  not  know,  brother. 

I  hearkened  a  terrible  curse. 

But  it  might  have  been  the  wind ! " 
Wistfully,  the  heart: 

"  Can  we  not  beg  from  man  to  man? 

Some  courteous  sir  might  give  us  the  tale? 

We'll  sing  him  our  rondel,  and  not  ask  a  sou ! " 

"  It  may  be  too  late  for  our  roundelay, 

it  might  sound  old-fashioned, 

as  dead  as  a  dirge," 


148  BLOOD  OF  THINGS 

wistfully,  the  head. 
Wistfully,  the  heart: 

"  We  could  lift  our  voices  from  plaintive  to  loud, 

and  strike  new  crooked  rhythms  on  timbal  and 
lute?  " 

"  New  crooked  rhythms  might  bring  us  an  ear  — 

your  thought  is  jocund  —  let  us  try," 
wistfully,  the  head. 
Wistfully,  the  heart: 

"  Let  us  ask  this  queer  fellow  to  show  us  the  mar- 
ket— 

an  errand  like  this  — " 

"  An  errand  like  this  — 

must  look  innocent,  cheerful  — " 
wistfully,  the  head. 

I  answered  quite  wistfully,  as  wistfully  as  they : 

"  I  will  try/'  I  said. 

My  rococo  kinsmen  are  stupid  and  slow. 
If  you  must  kill  each  other,  can't  you  do  it  with- 
out hate? 
They'd  nod  a  little,  bow  low,  caper  and  grin ! 

ARROWS 

Let  the  body  of  me  quiver  — 
men  shoot  it  at  men  — 
an  arrow  at  an  arrow  — 
I  an  arrow,  he  an  arrow  — 
he  the  other  me !  — 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  149 


It  will  play  boomerang  — 

the  soul  of  me 

meet  the  soul  of  me  — 

touch,  turn,  shoot  back, 

pierce  the  men  who  say,  kill !  — 

Shoot  bodies  with  hatred  — 
the  soul  shoots  back  love !  — 
God  says  so, 
each  time  He  writes  a  new  dawn ! 

NEED    I    SAY,    WHERE? 

My  country 

doesn't  hate 

people, 

but  elements  in  people  — 

my  country'd  kill  these. 

Nay,  my  country'd 

take  these 

to  a  place  it  knows, 

somewhere  — 

need  I  say,  where  ?  — 

and  have  them 

playfully  nurse, 

playfully  nursed  by, 

their  kindred. 

Twins  love  twins. 


INITIALS 

He  goes  along, 

in  his  thin  flesh, 

narrow  bones, 

slow  blood, 

old  hat, 

old  clothes, 

old  shoes, 

singing  for  love,  battling  for  love. 
He  will  go  down, 

in  thinner  flesh, 

narrower  bones, 

slower  blood, 

older  hat, 

older  clothes, 

older  shoes, 

battling  for  love,  dying  for  love. 
He  will  be  put  away, 

in  a  thin  box, 

down  a  narrow  slit, 

of  the  old  earth, 

growing  for  love,  rising  for  love : 
his  initials  carved 

on  a  thin  seed, 

narrow  seed, 

150 


BLOOD  OF  THINGS  151 

slow  seed, 
the  carving  as  slow 

as  he  was  slow, 
carving  his  K  on  a  song. 


WORD 

When  the  old  man  in  me 

tweaks  the  sleeve  of  the  lad 

and  whispers,  "  fine  '* 

if  ever  it  comes, 

that  is  the  word  I'll  bend  to. 


A  SELECTED  LIST 
IN  BELLES-LETTRES 

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NICHOLAS  L.  BROWN 


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Book  SIip-50m-8,'63(D9954s4)458 


104962 


Kreymborg,   A. 
Blood   of   things 


Call  Number: 

PS3521 

R55 

B6 


304962 


